I don’t want to hear about how good you write
I should make that call for myself
Based on what you show me
Where you take me
To your kidhood again or
To bumping shoulders with some incident
That I can only hope to stretch enough to correctly imagine
Tell me a lie and make me believe it
Convince me that the story found you—that it
Simply opts your voice a choice weapon and sings itself through
Remind me that art is beyond us,
Something needed more than cell phones
Something sanity grips when all handholds are gone

Don’t just tell me about what frustrates you
Tell me about what gets you past it
What did the moon do to the street that night
when you said screw it to your curfew
how the neighborhood slept surrounded by you living awake
how many sentences and assumptions do you stuff into the handshake
how many doors in your chest
which ones are shut
what of the padlocks put there
whisper to me which window to open
let ears be an ocean to rush in

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 25th, 2008 at 9:51 am and is filed under writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.