I call myself America's greatest writer. Short for
American's greatest living unpublished, or underpublished writer,
perhaps the greatest unpublished, or underpublished American writer ever.
Soon, I will be dead. Then what will I be?
Dead. The idea that one's reputation
survives him is a legend. It's myth.
A comforting story. Kerouac wrote
Vanity of Duluoz. He knew no one
would remember. It was all for naught.
He was playing keepsies but they were playing funsies.
He laughed and joked but he didn't play. Well, good for him.
So what? Who is that supposed to apply to?
They ate my milkshake. New York and Hollywood.
Up and Down in Delray Beach and Panama City.
They didn't stop me. I'm still here, as John Hartford says,
about the earthquakes in California. Deal with it.
Ha ha, they don't have to deal with me.
I have to deal with myself. With my own
longing and regret. Can I make this be enough?
The blank page? Windows 98 and a dial-up modem?