Thursday, November 6, 2014

11.6 - NaNoWriMo


Our cast is scattered, flung and clustered like constellations of salt. And each of us have our own plays and stage direction--bits part bigger or barely there at all, not knowing really what you are to anyone. There are blackened bridges, obituaries, children. Everything as if suddenly different.

We wrote our poems on back decks and in driveways, Van Morrison summer nights and Dylan Thomas sunrises. Lunch breaks resting chin on buzz cut head, sweating. Every experience spiked with urgency--keep them coming. The sharp edges cut us and youth kept us moving(when it wasn't holding us in place). I stayed too long sometimes, dabbing wounds with whiskey stretched out on wheat carpet making mixed tapes for exes--feeling feeling always feeling.

There is bliss in our maps. Some big red dots, the tender dark we followed for pen's sake. I am here and I remember. But why did I give it a suitcase? In the gold is garbage, folded all important.

Now the thief raising boys. The arthritic cowboy and ex-marine stuck on video games--ghost of a girl with bark-colored hair endlessly leaning over him. His forever wind. The regulars I remember, the vets mouthing along to Cash on a Thursday night. Where is Jane now? When they tore your building down did you twitch somewhere far away and unready? Your last strumming and the bartender's first child. I do not know you--not where it counts.

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