Reasons for a Failed Piece of Creative Writing
by Bryce Berkowitz
Because you believe they’ll be sorry one day. Because therapy. Because mom. Because you name too many plants. Because you fell in love with a girl who brought a teddy bear to a hip hop show and slept with a former heroin addict while you slept in the next room. Because why isn’t that in the poem? Because none of us are really free. Because the heart is a confusing muscle. Because you romanticize a time period that no longer exists. Because you need to eat something and drink more water. Because they died. Because they were only human. Because who sells used bath water on the internet in 2004? Because Hollywood. Because they left you. Because you left them. Because you have a bullshit job. Because you name way too many birds. Because why are you still dating them? Because your fucked-up childhood. Because who punches a wall and then hangs a skateboard poster over it? Because a lot of people write about fog over the mountains. Because a lot of people write about the moon and horses. Because the word waft makes you sound pretentious. Because you read Charles Bukowski and then wrote in a bar. Because the barista smiled at you. Because of class warfare. Because I’m sorry you’re not Shel Silverstein. Because why didn’t they text me back? Because chocolate chip cookies. Because naps. Because politics. Because ornithology is just capitalism for binoculars companies. Because Ritalin. Because Wellbutrin. Because Lexapro. Because not every bad thing that happens to you needs to be in a poem. Because not every bad thing that happens at work needs to be an email. Because porn. Because fascism. Because maybe what I’m really trying to say is, I don’t know if the right words exist to capture what it feels like when, unexpectedly, you see an old friend across the room at a public place—a bar, a restaurant, a theatre—and, instinctively, how you lift your head a little, as if to ask, almost in prayer, “Is that you?” before crossing the divide, and then feeling the years becoming months becoming weeks becoming days becoming minutes becoming seconds until there’s nothing left on earth keeping you apart from who you love.
BRYCE BERKOWITZ is the author of the poetry collection Bermuda Ferris Wheel, recipient of the AMC TV Pilot Award at the Austin Film Festival, and Co-Director of the MFA Creative Writing program at Butler University. He has new work in Ninth Letter, New Delta Review, The Normal School, and other publications. Find him at www.bryceberkowitz.com.