has, in his words, "written
five books, made a movie,
sold manicures and pedicures and served many many drinks". He has a B.A. in
English from Canisus College. He lives in New York.
© 2004 Michael Internicola
DEEP IN IT
new eyes looking at me
more complaining about me being selfish
more pages passed over
more weird fuck faces
different hair styles
lots of different
manis and pedis
i'm lying in one of my two beds
watching her get dressed
i can see it in the way she finds her clothes in my clothes
she's frustrated with me already
like the other one used to be.
this morning i can't even walk her to the door
suppose i'll hear from you when i hear from you she says
i'll call after looking at the knife,
the romano cheese, the shiraz,
the glasses, the phone, the salt a couple thousand times-
i'll sleep for days and work and write
and when that gets overly over i'll call
or leave a message just because she's not home.
i know solitude.
i know i'll never see her unhappiness again.
i know i gave her the best three weeks of her life.
bob said, "i can't believe you only read half
my short story."-i told him get used to it.
he also told me not to leave it around. didn't
want anyone to steal the title. miami somethin'
somethin' he called it. he did a treatment for a
pilot but didn't even write the first show. said
he had three meetings with hbo and everything.
he had an idea about a bellman in a new york
hotel. actors trying to make it. at least five words
on the front page i never saw before in my life.
couldn't understand the meaning. he works the
door at a joint i hang out at three times a week. my
roommates behind the bar so i got it covered. i
never pay a cent. last night when i was leaving
with the fat girls he asked me, "so what you think,
mike?"-i stopped, lit up a cigarette and stood there
tapping him on the shoulder, "write what you know,
bobby."-i said, "and don't ever fucking write what
i wrote 19 poems in the last fourteen hours. i got to look for a second job
tomorrow because the other one isn't paying enough. by the time i get there
and wait in line behind 700 other bartenders some of the famous movie stars
from the golden globes might still be up. i would.
"what are you wearing...?"-they'd ask me, "are you shy in real life?"
"fuck off."-i'd say. make myself play it cool.
then i'd drive down to the ocean and wait for sunset with rene or jennifer
who reminds me of my mother. all the while thinking it's damn nice not
having to sling drinks for the assholes tonight.
i want to write
like warren hayes
plays his guitar.
it's enough to
make the three
used rubbers on
the floor have feelings,
enough to make those
twenty butts in the
ashtray get up and dance.
All work is copyrighted property of Michael Internicola.
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