Remember the good old days?
Were there good old days?
What was good about my childhood?
Here we go, poet.
Introspective patheticness,
Self-righteous, bullshit.
I’ll get there, what do you want me to say?
I know everything about me that is a mess.
I have taken every medication.
There is no doubt.
And that is OK.
I write, and I get through.
And you will too.
Here we go.
Another PSA.
Poetry made me, poetry saved me.
What do you call this?
What do we call any of this?
Unless your name is Bukowski,
And your blood grows black with ink,
Then why write it down?
Like everything you have to say is so fucking great.
Like we need to hear everything you have to say.
I was built like this.
I was built this way.
I was conditioned, I was made green.
I came out of the egg a writer.
My first word was revision,
My second was antecedent
And my third was rhythm.
And somewhere along the way
I never learned to complete a thought.
Follow through.
Make point A go to point B.
I am a destructive little pissant.
And earlier there was a mosquito in my house
Dying to give me triple E.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.