Friday, October 18, 2013

venting about writing

Poems. Prose. Scrawled & barely legible lines on the receipts loose leaf in my bag. I shake my fist smudged with pen at you. I shake the pen too until ink jiggles in its capsule. I am Seymour pleading with his Audrey II as he squeezes another drop of blood into her verdant maw.

Poems and prose and orphaned stanzas--I aim to buy a house with all that silver you shove into the blue hammocks slung under both eyes. I intend to spend it all on getting you right. You glare at me and clip your wings. Your hems drag on the floors until they are no longer hems. Until they are edges gone missing, two ankles swirling in bite marks of fabric.

You break all my plates. Fill my pillowcase with bees.

But nothing in this world can touch the veins strapped on the meat of my heart except you. Dear writing you pluck them until they threaten to break, until the color in their arched posing fades where tension grows exhausted. You with your jelly fangs and ridiculous wants. You who will not be calm nor satisfied. Your Rube Goldberg ways. Your hatred for the porch light.

I do not ever want to be satisfied though sometimes I could use a break from your boot on my neck. Your tail of a head and four thousand bodies all running different directions.

You are Aceyalone's Love and Hate. The compact of my Medusa. You texture my lungs and keep me alive. Writing, you wear me out but I can't stop dancing, can't let you quit leading. When you leave you never slam the door. It stands ajar in your wake, a mouth wanting to say something. That pressure before you blow in again, heavy with bags and travel. Your hair color changed, your hands the same. Together we tape up your postcards that I've torn in two.

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