I burn your Highland Park. I acid your Carnegie
car dealerships. Your Squirrel Hill, sheer terror
in winter. But most of all, I hate your Liberty Avenue,
the last place, one night, I saw my closest friend
saying, Wait here, outside the after-hours club. I wait,
hating your Strip, half your Shadyside, all of Bloomfield,
the bluffs and flats where my friend trades himself.
I wait hours, then trace your Mexican War
Streets looking for his car, so I could declare a truce
in the battle he was fighting against himself. Your Hot
Metal, your Fort Pitt Bridge that leads headfirst
into the Monongahela. In the morning, he’s home.
He cannot tell me where it hurts. I help him shower
off the Duquesne residue, the priesting old world
shame. Pittsburgh, you’re all grit and gristle turning crystal
track marks, turning a man meth mouth. I feed him,
put him to bed. I’ll keep watch tonight in a cable car
ascending Mt. Washington, your smokestacks
blowing clouds over the confluence until all you are,
Pittsburgh, is a sleepless shimmer I will watch
diminish down to the savaged seed of morning,
as impossible to watch as you are to name.
Walking in the dark streets of Seoul
under the almost full moon.
Lost for the last two hours.
Finishing a loaf of bread
and worried about the curfew.
I have not spoken for three days
and I am thinking, “Why not just
settle for love? Why not just
settle for love instead?
But fuck it. I can’t help how I think. I’m drawn to drug use and emasculating sex and broken people doing whatever they possibly can to keep on going. This is what makes me excited. This is why I read and write.
I had been in college and didn’t want to go straight from college to graduate school in writing, because I didn’t think that I was ready as a writer. I think that you should go into an MFA program when you’re solid in your identity as a writer and you’re going because you want to learn more and because you want that community of peers and mentors, not because you want to convince yourself you are a writer.