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The Writer's Mind
Elliott Sharp
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Need an excuse, see a junkie. That's what we always said
My book's still where it was. It'll be there one day. All those years
Sitting looking at snow, all those pages typed and retyped again
All those years spent trying to get somewhere, getting nowhere at
All... Should have killed somebody maybe. If Manson had ever written
A book, it'd be the biggest bestseller of all. Celebrity and crime go
Hand in hand. Backstory's everything. His had it all: redemption
Survival, silence and cunning and good with a line. And once
You get taken personally in 20-point type, it all starts to
Look different. I knew I understood his crazy mixed-up life
I knew how he ticked. I knew how he felt. In the God-
Deserted mist of the Beehive State, its lake so blessed it
Spits people out, I heard his wail onto heaven as it poured from
His mouth: "Fucking Utah! Fucking Mormons! Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Must have been a natural in prison. Kept to himself when nobody
Looked. Johnny Cash days passing long and lonely. Read all the
Great authors: Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Spengler, Mickey Spillane
I knew how he saw the world. It's an open book if you know how to
Look. We've all got an angle and play it for what it's worth
One day, a light bulb went off. He saw how the writing game worked
Sprang into action, sent letters to the authors whose books he's
Read. Now I met plenty of authors, and they're all alike. Somebody
Tells them they like them and they give them their house. But the
Worst of those are the mud lovers, the aesthetes of the underside
They love the nightlife. They want to feel the feeling a
Fellow feels, feeling the inner organs of his fellow man from
The outside, metaphorically of course. Who loves to imagine
The rope drawn tight, the blink of the eye in the head of
The basket, who stabs with a knife in the mind, standing safe
On platforms of theory? You can't beat the rush looking down
The man knew his audience, I'll give him that. He's on death row
Killed and ate 17 women, and he's read my book? Confirm their worst
And best suspicions at once. Jack Henry Abbott had his readers down
Cold. Could spin them a line that could ride to the moon, long as
They wanted to be spun. So he wrote, and some read. He spoke, and
Some listened. It's a nation of marks out there, each looking to clip
Or be clipped by another. But you can't blame anybody for trying to
Make reality make sense. If God isn't interested, somebody should try
Oh, Susie, I'm sorry. I should have kept writing. I should
Have stayed straight. I don't know where it went. Where have
These years gone? Where did my New York go? Where did my city
Fly off to without me? And what did they leave in its place?
The world's biggest gated community, playground for bankers and
Bigwigs galore. Open-air mall to draw in the tourists. A better
Target you'd never believe. It's all going now, won't be here much
Longer. When the last people leave, will they please cut the lights?
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