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Friday, January 15, 2010

Henry Miller Slept Here



Henry Miller Slept Here

I know some famous writers
whose egos are equal to or greater than
their talent.
And some of these people
come to read for my students,
but some won’t unless they get paid
huge bundles of cash,
which makes them whores doesn’t it?

Not that there’s anything wrong with being
a whore. I think it should be legalized,
like in Berlin, where the whores have little
huts provided for them by the city,
where they can do “whatever” and still
get health insurance. They also get to wear
super-high Stevie Nicks white patent leather
platform boots too. John Updike
says he writes reviews for the New Yorker
for the health insurance, and I believe him,
because I’ve written some reviews about books
I really liked, and wanted to poke my eyes out
afterwards with a really hot piece of rebar.

So back to the whore writers.
There’s nothing wrong with making money;
we all love capitalism don’t we?
But 15,000 dollars, come on, and then
they’ll cancel on you. And I don’t blame
them if they’re feeling bad and all,
but they kind of suck, and we nurse
their egos with big paychecks.

So, since all us writers teach, (and we do),
can’t we just pay for their food and flights? A room.
I have a big house. Writers sleep on my sofa,
they sleep on my bed, they steep like teabags
in my Jacuzzi, but some don’t, and I guess that’s
O.K., but Henry Miller would’ve fucked on my couch,
and if I fed him, he’d have come talked to my students
gratis, because that’s the way he was,
and he had a big ego, though if the rumors are true,
a smallish cock, (crazy though it may have been).

Originally published in Otoliths

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