Alex, It Was Really Nothing

Alex, It Was Really Nothing


I was just about to throw on a shirt
and take the Q to Canal and walk 
to Bacaro and have five glasses of wine
and then I felt guilty I haven’t written 
much of anything so I said, “okay, 
you have twenty minutes to write a poem,”
and here I am, eighteen minutes left 
writing a poem about writing a poem.
Okay! So I’m done being obsessed with men
who don’t know I’m a genius. Bye baby.
Bye big mouth. Bye small dick. I won’t even say
the last one’s name because he already thinks
he’s in my poems and it’s the closest 
he’ll ever get to love. But hold on, 
this is turning into a truly cruel poem. 
Let’s rewind! Let’s have a drink.
Let’s actually order the squid ink 
pasta when we get to Bacaro
and take two bites then go out for a cigarette
around the corner so the guys at Clando
(who’ve spilled out onto the street) 
can look at me and pretend they’re not cruising
and pretend they’re not gay, and I’ll pretend 
I care about the bad novels they’re writing
or how “everything is political,”
someone has to say this mid-conversation, 
and I have to go out for another cigarette 
because I’m thinking I should go to 169 Bar
at this point but don’t, I go to Fong’s
with Will and David and a beautiful Scorpio
who looks like Joni Mitchell (who is 
a Scorpio, obviously) and the way I see it
with thirteen minutes left I have nothing 
to prove and nothing to teach you,
and this poem is not going to solve 
any crisis or pretend it knows anything
about anything, and the way I imagine it is 
someone puts on The Smiths at Fong’s
which has actually never happened
but this is a poem and I can do what I want
since truth has nothing to do with art
and art has everything to do with truth
and you’re probably wondering
what Smiths song and why a Smiths song
and when is this poem going to be over
(two minutes now, I lost a little time
trying to gain a little speed)
and it’s “William, It Was Really Nothing”
that’s the song, it’s not great for the cadence 
of the poem but it’s the one Smiths song
I want to hear at a bar and never will 
because it’s too sad and too short 
and too beautiful—and not everything 
beautiful gets what it deserves. Okay!
Life is pain. I think we all know that.
It’s fine. Whatever. Just play the next fucking song.