Hues du dann eppes ze soen? the oldest man asks me.
Three crop around a table; sipping cans of the cheapest beer
money can buy and pluming French cigarette smoke out our mouths
The youngster, who couldn’t grow a beard,
who knew nothing,
who couldn’t write for shit – that’s me
The middle man, who always shaved to the grain,
who looked older than he was,
who never got a word
The oldest, who looked like life ran past him,
who talked big and ran his mouth,
who I’m not sure actually knew anything
We sat out in the sun and talked writing,
We rotted our brains under UV and drowned survivors in bleach cocktails,
We talked over the Alzette’s breath.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? the oldest man repeats.
His leather skin tanned by years of work; chemical blends
on his calloused hands, worn arms, bare chest, and torn pants.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he repeats, and I don’t know the answer.
He says,
You write about death because you don’t know it
You write about death because you never lived it
You write about death because you never saw it
You write about love because you never had your heart broken
You write about love because you never felt someone’s touch
You write about love because your parents hate each other
A gulp of piss-golden, sun-warmed liquid and
foam runs past his mouth onto his
oil-glistening hairy chest
You have to have lived to tell
You have to have loved to write
You have to have died to muse
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he asks yet again and
I don’t know – of course I have something to tell, you cunt,
I lived because sounds don’t make sense anymore
I loved because I have words I can’t speak
and I died because I forgot to dream
The old man asks again
Hues du dann eppes ze soen?
You gave up on writing because you couldn’t take the pressure,
You settled for a hermit’s life on a paradise at the
Alzette’s toes; to drink, to smoke, to sculpt.
Hues du dann eppes ze soen? he asks one last time.
No, old man, I write to tell