“I saw your website,” she said.
“Oh,” I asked.
“Yes, when you posted that link
to that poem. I didn’t so much
get into that
but the artwork was marvelous.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m happy to hear
that you at least liked the art…
But not so much that writing, huh?”
“Well you know... I think that
was a little long for me.
Maybe if you wrote shorter--
like a little haiku,” she said.
“There are lots of people
who write haikus,” I interrupted.
“Just like there are lots of people
who shit while sitting down.
balancing tip toe
over the toilet
and dropping one
just so there is no splash.
That takes real talent,” I said.
She nodded, confused.
“There are so few
who can lay down that good long one,
while standing up,
without making such a mess of himself
or the porcelain.
Hell, sometimes I push out these runs
that come out so smooth,
that there is no smudge—
no punctuation to mop up.
I am just left with a sparkling clean asshole;
A black on white asterisk;
But I suppose maybe you make a good point, okay.
Perhaps my ass needs a rest, once in a while?
So I will write you that short little haiku
next time I sit down for that short little shit.
How’s that sound?”
She had wandered away by then,
into the peddling bodies of the art gallery;
Where the only thing more offensive
than the prices on this talentless schlock—
were the people admiring them,
as if they knew anything about that art