writing

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Before I write a poem I leave my wife
She’s far too depressed to get this high

She wouldn’t meet me in the lobby or buzz me up

I’ve convinced myself a thousand times
that I am and am not worth saving—

Still laughing, as I type . . .

The following is an interview with writer Craig Rodgers.

This gorgeous moleskin, it is turning my prose to pedestrian garbage.

The terrashot, a long, dry mammal shaped a little like a coffin, served as the controlling metaphor of Tom’s work.

I’m sitting in a small wooden chair outside of the head of the writing department’s office.

Every evening for the past 5 years between the hours of 9PM and 10PM you have been sitting at your desk drafting your third novel.

Screaming interrupted road screeches.