Reading Jamaal May

Reading Jamaal May: HUM. I see we both submitted to the same magazine once: The Drunken Boat. The difference being that he was published and I’ll probably be rejected. But hey, May’s stuff is really good, so if I get published there, what does that say about me…?

I wrecked a golf cart last night. I wrote six poems, unedited. Un-transcribed, as of yet. So, they’re not done, only babies—unsure of themselves.

I am mostly that: unsure of myself. I drank nearly 20 beers two nights ago in one sitting. I remember thinking at the time, while listening to Tom Waits, “That’s more than usual, Blevins. Maybe you shouldn’t?” Then I continued to throw the empties into a copse of trees ringed by a cul-de-sac. And then hid from the development’s night security patrol truck as it slid through the neighborhood. I snuck back into the house just in time to witness the Rays give up an eighth inning homerun to the Orioles, losing the game, eventually, by one run.

Fuck.

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