a poem for amanda palmer

you don't know how bright the spotlight can be giving a steampunk TED talk but nothing can be as bright as this poem fallout.

you don't know how hard it is to get mean tweets about your brechtian kickstarter racket until you've been accused of sympathizing with a murderer before his victims are buried.

you don't know how to stop drawing flowers in the margins of a train wreck.

you don't know how people can dictate who you are supposed to cry about in a tragedy.

you don't know how much those vintage pleated wedge boots are pinching until you take them off.

you don't know how these internet thugs with their mean emails can expect you to take responsibility for what you say or do as part of your art.

you don't know how to put your life back together after the murder of your child unless it's exactly like getting over spilling your last cold kombucha at burning man.

you don't know how creatives can afford not to invest in moleskines.

you don't know how many stripes to wear on the socks you put on your arms.

you don't know how to make something, but the internet will give you money to not pay someone to do it for you.

you don't know how real war feels until you have covered the violent femmes at australia's mofo festival so maybe your critics should try it some time.

you don't know how people destroy their knees running marathons unless the thingamabobbery starts selling repro edwardian running singlets.

you don't know how saying something can be anything but art when you're sort of famous.

you don't know how to apologize, clearly, but that's okay because see above.

you don't know how it feels to have your leg asplode but that hand cramp from signing your art book was horriworst.

you don't know how to play the musical saw but you know how to play the musical saw musician.

you don't know how people eat so much corn syrup.

you don't know how you ended up anything other than loved.

you don't know how people have this stupid need to capitalize words i mean seriously get over it.

you don't know how people can't care deep enough and well enough to feel sorry for the guy who blew up an eight year old.

you don't know how people could be so hung up on the difference between understanding and empathy.

you don't know how nine minutes could change so much about how people think of you.

you don't know how to just apologize for writing one dumb thing.

you don't know how to just apologize for writing one dumb thing.

you don't know how to just apologize for writing one dumb thing.

you don't know how to just apologize for writing one dumb thing.

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i repurposed the phrase for this post but it's shamelessly stolen from amanda palmer who believes we should volunteer donations for everything because she was totally a busker and now she's just putting out that shingle for a million dollars and a dream meanwhile sordid capitalists like me expect you to buy something i.e. a crass product like a science fiction book rather than art like a blog poem that took nine minutes to write probably not going to be getting a quote from neil gaiman on one of my books any time soon though...

	Zack is the author of the new short story collection Wages: Future Tales of a Hired Gun, a blood-soaked satire of private military contracting. He is also the author of the genre-hopping novel Liminal States, soon to be available as an audiobook. You can find out more about Zack's latest projects and special offers on his Facebook page.

– Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons (@sexyfacts4u)