His email said: I don’t like poetry, but I like your poetry.

I replied: That’s because I don’t type poetry.

He asked: What do you type then?

I told him: I type dirty dreams that I’ve lived out. I type paranoid fantasies that I’ve forced into reality. I write busted condoms and broken noses, I write the long dead past into life and fill the pages with zombies. I don’t think it can be called poetry.

He answered with: You’re right! I can definitely make out the corpses and the pregnancy tests. And yes, you are paranoid.  And even though I find myself hoping that you don’t actually live this way, another part of me knows that you do. I mean, you’ve got to be one hell of a good liar to pull it off if you didn’t. And I can also understand why you don’t think your writing could be called poetry, but that leads me to ask, what would you call it then?

I wrote back: I don’t know what to call it. I don’t call it anything. When I type it’s sessions with a shrink. I’m lying on a couch spilling guts, I’m exorcizing demons, releasing repressed memories, coming to terms with my great I, like I said, I don’t know. It’s just something I have to do. By the way, how’d you start reading me?

He told me: My girlfriend reads you over at the Expose’d website. She sent me a link saying I should check it out and I did. Then I started typing your name into Google and found some more of your stuff. I’m even thinking about buying one of your books. Which one would you recommend?

I made a recommendation: All of them. Buy 2 or 3 copies of each and help support me. It’ll be the greatest act of charity you’ll ever pull off. Also, what does your girlfriend look like? Is she cute? And if so, is she kinky? Do you think you could send me a few pictures of her?

His email came back 2 minutes later: Why would you even bring something like that up? I thought you were cool at first, but now I see you’re just a dick. I hope nobody buys your books. Go f*** yourself!

I stayed the course: Let’s not get off the subject. Buy the books and send me a few pictures. What can it hurt? You’ll get something good to read, and your girlfriend will feel sexy. Women like to know that they’re lusted after, especially by great artists like myself- I promise, just tell her I asked and you’ll make her day.

He replied: I’ve blocked your email address so don’t even bother anymore. And once again, go f*** yourself! Your writing sucks!

Well, maybe I had just lost a fan, but it didn’t matter much. I was a great artist, (sure Johnny boy, you just keep telling yourself that) and a new fan would pop up to take his place. Meanwhile, I thought about his girlfriend. He would tell her what I had said, and she’d get that rush of blood, and sure enough, she’d make plans to take a few pictures of herself when he wasn’t around. Then she’d email them to me one day, I’d look at them, and then type up the story of how they came into my possession. Then I’d get the story published- definitely. He’d read it and confront her. After a while she’d admit it, and the war would start. He’d call her a whore and a tramp. She’d call him a shiftless loser. He would swear revenge on me, and maybe even smack her around a little before heading out to drink with one of his hunting buddies- fantastic. And then one day in the future I’d feel the edge of a bowie knife pressed against my back while riding the subway, I’d turn around, see some grinning loon, and he’d say ‘The greatest act of charity, huh?’