6 November 2012
My friends live in words and some are ones I’ve met and some I’ve met when I’ve exposed their inner spines to light. Men and women friends, lovers and girlfriends. There are strangers here, whose words were striking and which I stole for my collection.
Pain endorphins angst; vegetate, 12 hours
scoundrel of scuffed-up wood, questioning in me the way to be
permanence of language
on printed plasticky paper on rolls
in cell phone bodies, buzzing
I read you under a bleached sky
and wanted to write you, as you wrote to me
drunk and tasting sweetness
of being a breath in the night
living within our own gardens
but sharing harvests to be enjoyed
You become a freckle on my right pinkie
and it’s okay, it’s part of our condition
as writers to embrace, take what is as is as can be
potential loveliness in uncertainty
recalling what was as a layer under our skin
and we have many layers
time gives us material
breathe in the fire, exhale el sol
I wrote this in class, during my Introduction to Creative Writing class this quarter. We had a few minutes to write something using the "clippings" journals we'd been compiling all quarter, a notebook or some kind of collection of words, phrases, photos, things from the world around us that we'd compiled together into a jumble as "fodder" for our writing, as my instructor was fond of saying. This has not been revised from its original penning in my notebook on November 6.
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