SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

I Hate, I Said

Maybe, I hate fiction,
he said, he
wondered aloud.
Of course!
Maybe, I hate spoken word
fiction -- audio books
read by the male Siri.
Or, do I hate
stagnant attribution,
or plot, while still fresh:
the fragrant smell of
something,
how one visualizes the world
differently,
why we do
things,
waiting to get through
some thought about
the past, if
I did things differently --
novelists realizing
missed opportunity?
Or,
is it me?
I missed an opportunity
starting the chapter of
my next novel
seventeen times,
each start better
than the last, tricky
working out that
plot;
but,
forgotten -- no longer
hammered out on inked,
soiled linen-like
paper, reams unbound
from glued, form-fitted
wrap, now
remote files stored
two or three
laptops ago, nay
diskette.
I hate fiction.
I hate said,
he declared...
loudly...
for emphasis.
And, I hate punctuation.

I'm done.