by Nick Thran
A found poem, lifted from (mainly sober) emails from
various Forget editors and contributors. Inspired by Anne
Lauterbach´s The Novelist Speaks, for Don DeLillo.
This fall could be trouble.
Follow it. Sustain it. Don't argue.
For every deposit, a swaggeringly
with the lights off. Don't worry
about the details leaving.
Panos and baby blue Nalgene bottles. They all
have to do with fiction. All fucking fiction.
And writing moderately veiled
non-fiction. Where it stops
in front of arq and my heart
I could make this concise
keep it together -
A fish tank, Dalai Llama posters,
chicken marinating inside the fridge
--as if I were looking at you drunk with only
one eye: They tried
to sell me oranges. They have to do with Jesus.
What rules have been set down are ignored anyway.
Leck likes when I call them pieces.
Nick Thran is too
skinny for Spain.