The Reason I'll Never Read This To An Audience

Live is a peculiar

fellow. When you meet

it for the first time,

you’re unsure if it’s Livv or

Lyve—like bumping into

Job at the liquor store,

uncertain if he’s

probing for employment

or is drinking because he’s

swathed in sores & boils. I know

I cannot blame him. Alas,

I have digressed.

It makes it hard for

a listener of this poem—

hence I’ll refuse

to read it in public.

Of course, read is

a whole new bag of

worms. Reed or Red.

Damn it I hate

English. Even whole &

hole bring misery. I should’ve

used can, but it sits there

indistinct—ability or a tin

of barfaroni.  

So please understand,

dear Jesús in the very

back row, closest

to the door, whose name I

loused at the intro, I hurt my

back in a canoe and can’t

convey it. I’ll return in half-

a-jiffy with the paddle

as a prop, ask you to move

to the front and talk

of accents, whack you on

the ass to start a good ol’

donnybrook, an old-fashioned

raow

we said back in the day,

when we knew what

everyone meant,

or shrugged it made no

difference, content

to not be dead.

Andreas Gripp

July 2, 2026

photo by vchal, iStock