Creative Writing

Thirteen narcissists in a room.

One occupies the head of the table,
gently fondling his first published novel,

Milk Toast, 

which the university press declares
"a wry and energetic romp" 

chronicling the misadventures 

of an associate professor
struggling with success
and an arranged marriage gone awry.

He admires the glossy cover of his book
while the rest of us 

huddle in groups of four
to discuss dialogue construction.

"Good dialogue should sound real," 

someone offers.

"It should advance the plot," 

says another.

They turn to professor 

who acknowledges approvingly.

"Alright," professor says, 

"here comes a timed exercise 

to help you think more creatively."

He produces an assortment of newspapers
and instructs the class 

to find story ideas

in the headlines.

"You have six minutes."

I am handed a paper 

and encounter a piece
chronicling a group of Japanese students
who built a world-record-breaking,

one-hundred-foot-tall structure
made of Legos.

The Japanese celebrated

with a parade of streamers, 

fireworks and musicians.

The fireworks grew out of hand, 

and the wooden platform 

supporting their creation 

caught fire.  

Attempts to control the blaze failed.

The structure collapsed.

A photo portrays teenagers 

standing in horror and weeping.

The headline reads: 

       JAPANESE LEGO-TOWER RECORD 

       DESTROYED BY FIRE

Yet, those students─

 

months of planning and labor,

their monument

to God knows what 

disappearing in flames.

I pass the paper.

Others scribble furiously,

pencils racing.

"Time's up!"

Then it hits me, 

in what professor calls

"your divine, creative spark."

I get the hell out of there

and hustle to the Student's Union Bar

before the story

gets away.

**First published in The American Dissident

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

On Dropping Out of College

Bukowski and I are trading punches again.
He claims I jab like a schoolgirl.

"See Boccaccio," he tells me.  "See Jeffers,
Fante, Céline . . . and get a job, kid."

Anaïs Nin telegrams from Paris.
She's had it with Henry and his whores.

"He's just a child," she writes, "and so are you."
Little escapes her eye.

I've been mainlining William Burroughs

like a shameless junky.

His hipster cynicism floods the bloodstream

with antipathy for Freud's theories

on psychosexual development:  The Ego And The Id,

The Interpretation Of Dreams.

I have recorded my dreams in which
Hemingway is a frequent visitor.

He insists I keep my elbows down and in,
else that scoundrel, Dostoyevsky,

will sucker-punch me in the groin.
I have looked forward to meeting Nietzsche

and Rimbaud, but the semester is beginning
and I am required to spend much time

with Wordsworth, Melville, and Descartes,
the very same sons of bitches

Mark Twain cautioned not to let interfere
with my education.


**First published in Di-Verse-City anthology