It was mid-summer 2001 and hot as hell, in a self-conscious city dense with what felt like half-a-billion twenty-somethings' combined urgent expectation of the new, “what's next?”, as the reflector-vested hardhats poured their steaming black-sparkle asphalt cum out onto the little unnamed sub-street that ran parallel to Delancey as it began at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge outside the ground-floor window of my illegal nouveau tenement peeking out from behind freshly-painted steel security gates toward a ceaseless flood of exhaust-borg imports in their canoe drifting automation, when I penned my first real poem.

Writing a book was never a goal of mine. I'm not a 'reader'. I don't give a damn about writers. Certainly not the kind that wear the title as badge. I couldn't care less about the masturbatory egotism that fuels the fraudulent gymnastic intellectualism that is permanently concerned with academic exercise and status play. Nor am I interested in the systemic manipulation of the public by the book industry's hype-machine worker-bee piss-ant armies and their sacred revenue-stream Excel-sheet altar. I saw a dead fly. And I heard it say something to me. So I wrote it down.

What came next was ten plus years of shit that if I dared try explain would likely, at best, come out drenched in self-pity. “So what, asshole”, I hear you say. And you're right. But not for the reasons that compel you to say such mean things. But for the fact that all is blank. All is empty. All is done. And none of it new. Or important. Nor will whatever we do ever amount to anything beyond the storage-closet meta-taggery we in reflex assign to it in our fleeting want to love meaning. To mean love. And yet, like all men, a majority of fools, I am thus compelled to do. To continue. And so I do.

Poems, however trivial and futile, are not just a result of semi-conscious persons attempting to eek out a desperate 911 call in their shared lonely moments of domesticated gang-rape. They are more than just job security for linguistic archeologists in the hundred years from now times. They are not just the bottled SOS messages of a 

trillion sunburned, insect-infested, shipwreck-stranded, skeleton-sack, desert island men, floating about aimless on a sea of accidental hope waves, betting on the magnetic prayer magic of the desperate sender that they reach some obsessive hero-fetish first-responder on the other side of the ever-taunting asshole horizon. No, they are instead our last sips of fresh water as we dehydrate to death in the blazing fury of life's uphill why.

And so, these words were assembled solely as salve to simply soothe my sailing soul.

Joel Moore

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