The monk told my recently divorced friend that no woman would everfuck him again if he kept carrying around that bag that looked like a pursewe laughed wondered if was thea satchel and a pouch we’re both poets me and my friend so it’s only naturalthat this end up in a poem for the valiant way to complain is to create sometimesartists get to complain and call it art sometimes artists complain and no one listensbut my friend living in a monastery in Germany with the monk for two weekscould not speak about how incredulous he was about this declaration because whatdid the monk know about sex I’m thinking probably enough with respect to howit might pertain to a certain type of woman I’m also thinking how Nietzsche saidto make sure everything goes okay how in the silent era days film sets were noisy as hellbecause who could hear anyhow hell can also be the mind of a person like say George Pattonwho liked to believe he had lived many lives always as a warrior dying on a battlefield acrossthe endless planes of time what mind you ask desires valiant death over and over again maybenot the kind that sees the sky as a time machine or depicting clouds as a form of portraiture Pattonalso proclaimed himself a poet though he probably didn’t have the particular form of fortitude it takesto carry a even though everyone who got near him ended up fucked and not in the good way
