I have a bookhouse it tends to my friends. stacked up wards, stacked sideways
requiem for a morning, east of darkness paralyzed from the last word you tasted— on the page you dog-eared with a coffeepot hand shakeside waysgrin.
And I’ll find it again, stumble to the page walk over to the word, tap the shoulder of the conductor because the orchestra can play (did I tell you there are symphonies in your hand that I slipped you the baton when your eyes gave way to soft)
For it is a terribly poisonous habit. And I do things like C B A cost . benefit . analysis maybe cowboys would say “is the juice . worth . the squeeze . ?” but maybe they wouldn’t say that.
There is money . but little catharsis a robust Greek word but a writer loves words
and that is the primary problem. I would much prefer to work with oil, rubies, gold bricks. But instead, diction, syntax, the aestheticization of text. I will tiptoe over commas, periods. For a pittance.
The rest, I presume (for we often must) will be negotiated between paper & pen, and in them, I trust.
So I thought I would share the writing exercise that brought me to that grotesque poem below. It’s called Five Easy Pieces.
1. Describe the person’s hands. 2. Describe something he or she is doing with the hands 3. Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. (apparently for me, a church, or rather a wedding day at a church is exotic) 4. Mention what would would want to ask this person in the context of 2 and 3, above. 5. The person looks up or toward you, notices you there, gives an answer that suggests he or she only gets part of what you said.
And there you have it. A poem in five easy steps. I of course, opt for something grotesque and Swift-ian.