most of my favorite writers didn't want what i think they wanted

 i promised myself i'd write 

"100 posts" this year and i wrote but only a few were posted

     there's a handy folder with NOTES

     written on it with a snow of scraps of paper inside

then i ride my unicycle on pacific coast highway 

and think about novels that could be written 

this writing becomes riding and people

become my short stories we both inhabit 

     when i ride against traffic and cut across a lane

     and almost get hit my fault that is a poem 

then i think about all the lies of perfection 

the hype of exceeding or breaking out like a fame comet 

all the problems that comes with it and how sometimes

i'd like to try it out anyways 

but i think getting riding more and more as my writing 

and seeing what happens 

most of my favorite writers didn't want what i think they wanted 

and if fame came along it seared them