Fifteen Minutes

i think about fame, or
the idea of it
most
when i’m in the crapper
dreaming up absent-minded
future ism’s that
might find me
gesturing at whatever has
claimed
my attention at that moment
and, i imagine writing some thing
so perfectly apt
that i, forgettable I,
should be celebrated for
but,
this is not a reason
to do anything

i write because, in truth,
i’ve given up at
everything else

i feel vindicated in poetry, in a way
i never could
in life

to Hell with money, and interviews
i don’t watch television
besides,
poor i understand, poor i relish

i never read the paper, i don’t
want to hear about The War, i
won’t Vote, haven’t yet

i do however believe
that politics and Art
make quarrelsome bedfellows

that i am terrible at parties,
am too wilful to take part in
sycophantic conversational buggery

i call bullshit when i smell it,
and care too little for hurt feelings
to have children -apart from these
pieces of myself
that I pour into, and send out

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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