On Being A Writer

By Tyler Majer

On Being A Writer or

An Ode to Words or

The Process or

Bull Shit

Sometimes I write
With a frantic energy
Using state-of-the-art clichés
And shoot-from-the-hip metaphors
Ready to chop and
Cut and
Screw-the-words-
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r

Other times I methodize
A careful choosing
A portentous, political picking
Of Apples that
Carefully
Roll
Downhill
Into this oak-filled, hopeful, heart

I have inspirations
People I want to be like
Write like
Admirations and admiring
The struggles of others
That I enjoy
That I pretend to undertake
An extension
Of their lifework

For instance:

Neruda
Sociological
Writing about the nature
Of love, of life
The nature of…

________
An ode to…
________

Naturally,

Bukowski
Complaints commissioned
By consumption
Slowly dying
Every word
Takes a breath
And smolders
Exhaust

I sometimes
Try to picture
Myself
As one of the romantics
Nature never made any sense to me
Isn’t that the point?

Sometimes I want to be
An absurdist
And write words like
Cum
Fuck
Shit
And see if that evokes
The feeling of
Something
Other than
Cum and
Fuck and
Shit and

__________

Sometimes I hope to
Be an imagist
Because a
Poem is a poem is a poem is a poem
Right?

Sometimes I pretend to be a beat
And I listen to Jazz
But I am the dean of my own dreams
And wolves fucking scare me
So you won’t hear me
Howl

Sometimes the poem is finished before it even started,
And I try to edit things
Completed
And wonder if poetry
Is really (this)
Easy?

Sometimes (I) use (too) many brackets or forget that the line does have to
End

Sometimes
I
Don’t
Have much
To say
So I
Stretch
It
Out

I had an idea once
To take each letter of the alphabet
And follow it
With the letter before it
Like this:
A
Ba
Cb
Dc
And So On
Until it reaches
Zy
I don’t know if that is considered poetry
I don’t know if this is considered poetry
I don’t know if I am  _______
Ha

But I am hopeful
That one day, I will write
Without hesitation
Or questioning
Or wondering if what I write
Is actually worth reading
But for now, I wait, and
Write and
Doubt

But why do I keep writing then?
Why don’t I just wait for that day to come?
Why do I write when I can’t figure out my influences?
When all (my) greats have come and went?
And all (the) heroes have died?

(I worry about clichés,
But some are unavoidable
Here I go again and
Again and
Again
And)

Because I fear that
The day I want to write
Isn’t a day at all,
But a fleeting feeling
The kind you get when
You see someone smile
Or cry
Or a birth
Or a death
Or
Or

And if I cease to write,
I will cease to
Be
Anything of
Substance and
Worth and
Prosperity and
Hope and
And
And