In high school, get pissed off at everyone and everything. Stay pissed off. This is what makes you a poet. Know that good poetry, the best poetry, comes from being angry. Write poems about violence, sex, and death. Read lots of Nietzsche. God is dead. Cut your hair short and spiky in the front, keep it long in the back, and keep it stiff with a combination of Dippity-Do and toothpaste. Ignore your parents when they ask you what you’re trying to prove.
One weekend, take the train into the city and go slam dancing in a room painted black. Chug Jack Daniels out of a bottle behind the club with your best friend. Minor Threat plays on the main stage. Pump your fist in the air, and enjoy the way your head swims. Someone slams into you hard and your teeth rattle. Take a few steps backward. Hear your friend yell, “Are you okay?” Say you’re fine.
The guy who hits you is apologetic. He pantomimes smoking a cigarette. Nod and let him take your hand and lead you toward the back of the room. Notice the tattoo on his wrist. Love it.
