So:
here's the famous
-nay, infamous, if I was to buy his line,
though I don't know if I even buy "famous"-
writer,
with his beer bottle collection,
daily zazen,
heavy metal records and t-shirts,
incessant smoking, piles of books,
and who knows how many other
affectations
(I'm sorry, "idiosyncrasies").
Weird hours,
lazy skateboarding
(stop being a pussy, dude),
Chinese studies,
broad yet shallow intellect:
All this shit is absurd enough,
but where is the output to justify his status?
Where are the novels, poems, essays?
Am I really expected to take his word for it,
or worse,
these words as proof that he's a "writer"?
Please.
There are teenagers who've written more,
and had better receptions
on- and off-line,
than this guy.
I'll take a page from his book
(The Big Copout: Recent History and Personal Failure)
and leave it be for the time being.
Maybe he'll write something in the interim that breathes life into
the author he sometimes thinks he is,
and that the future
-in his mind-
might not revere, but at least relegates to
a comfortable cult niche.
Nice try.
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