take this, nanowrimo

Well I'm no road-hog speed freak with an endless roll of typing
paper and contempt for corrections or even looking back.
(Dylan had his back pages, too, I recall)
Nor am I a wannabe writer or even a writer without motivation.
(Who was it who said you write in a gutter or your bullshit day
job, while the Man wrings you out a bit each day, even when
your little tiny crunched-down humped-down landlady kicks you
out for leaving all those wine bottles in the hallway and
not paying a dime of rent?) But I digress–
your eyes are the least enchanting shade of evening, my deer
–and I ask whether you can Beat your way to a romance novel
or perhaps should stick to short-form
slashfic?
::page 46
had been hungry all day. Todd finally spotted a deer through
the lush summer foilage, a beautiful 14-point buck with bushy
white tail twitching as he scented a doe who was no doubt nearby
with brown spots on his hide to camoflage him from wolves. Todd
knew better how to take out this magnificent creature. He raised
his Hollytown A-46 compound bow with its twisted blue-and-white
nylon string and pulled back until the fletchings on his hand-made
::page 48
Charlene, her blonde hair stylishly lifting up and back from her
brow, crumpled her brow in worry, "Don't leave me Todd," she said,
"I'll do anything you want," she said, reaching for his hefty
::
but look maybe you shouldn't wait until the month of
publication nightmares
and a blank page waiting to chew your ideas from shit into visible
shit
but instead retreat with your pencil and yellow lined legal pad with
its useless punched trio of voids around which you can doodle
to the outhouse and amidst the flies contemplate the hurt
and pointlessness and injustice of the universe and distill with
your flexing bowel a thought which squeezes itself bloody
from your forehead, bits of you gray matter still clinging to
it, postmodern Athena clothed in graphite dust cyphers and signs,
and bury that pad then, in the earth, and return your idea to the garden
from whence it came: that compost heap where you
grow all those tomatoes and yams
and blackcurrants
from which you make the ink which you use
to ghostwrite bedtime stories told by your grandmother to your
nonexistent children, in the voice of Samuel Clemens and Goethe's
love child, from the viewpoint of a drug-addicted autodidact with
cerebral palsy and gender identity issues and also schizophrenia
on alternate Wednesdays,
and every story is both a murder mystery
and a meandering meditation on modern life
both a self-referential and endlessly clever send-up of contemporary
fiction and a sober re-invention of the drama;
and all of it poolry edited,
before you fall asleep with your significant other holding your
shoulders gently and cooing to you when you say you didn't
do anything as spectacular today as yesterday or the day before that
or even last week when you were the best new composer of
garage rock since what's-his-face, and happy
you will be, and you'll sleep.