Saturday, June 10, 2017

Writing Days

On writing days,
each word is a blanket
each sentence - uninvited,
and has
overstayed it's welcome.
This is not
poetry, where
phraseology dissipates, conversations
peel off and scatter, and
paragraphs are lambent with
meaning.

On writing days -
how do you measure your
irony, how do you
ration out a little of
yourself in 160 (or less) characters? How
do you transcribe each voice
in your head, at alarming speed?
How do you provision
for the scanty days,
when
the landscape is ugly, the june air
humid and offensive?

When I write, I
imagine you, reticent, in your city -
lush with cherry blossoms, March
sunlight on pedantic columns, a book in
hand. And when the crescendo -
(Beethoven, if you're interested) at the end,
does ethereal things: my eyes
squeezed shut, toes curled down, waves of goosebumps -
I put down my pen and
consume you whole. Your deliquescent words -
iambic pentameter intact -
assimilate into the world.

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