They're not the Undead.
They're the Unread.
They stagger toward you
in cafes and bars,
carrying moist notebooks,
possibly wearing berets.
(Some of them were once
famous and popular. Old
anthologies muffle their
screams like thick
asylum-walls.)
They are all over
the Internet, the Unread.
("Eloise, why does he write
'they" and not 'we'?")
So much writing, so
little reading. They occupy
the night. They read poems
outside closed libraries.
They get high, the Unread,
and they behave badly in hopes
of becoming the next Bukowski.
In your nightmare,
they smother you with thousands
of saddle-stapled chapbooks
and eat from your refrigerator.
Cue ghostly music.. . . The Unread!
hans ostrom 2013
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