I Write Because (1)

This is an 'experiment' I like to do on my own, as well as with my creative writing group. You come up with different answers every time. It is a continual source of self-discovery. I share these against my better judgement. After all, I have a weird sense of humour. 


- i sometimes have the notion of a green sky and bright orange trees, and it's only right that i should document such phenomena.
- it's my duty. my mother had lost her soul to a minor demon and could only get it back if she promised her first-born child to the services of apollo.
- coffee makes me high, and in that state one can get really entertaining poetry.
- as my pen scrawls i feel like i'm dancing as my feet cannot
- i was seven when i declared i'd be a writer, and nigh-on-thirteen years later my pride has not allowed me to repeal the vow.
- yes, i apparently did make a vow. to whom? i write to find out, hoping that i can catch him peeking over my shoulder.
- it's better (i stubbornly believe) than having a love life
- imagination's the only method i might ever get of having a love life
- i like putting my secrets at risk of discovery when i commit them to paper. a thrill-seeker, me.
- in stubborn denial of reason.
 the sound of scribbles can be grounding. or titillating.
- i am a hypocritical environmentalist. i enjoy working with paper. a lot.
- the soul needs to pour itself somewhere when it gets too unruly to contain.
- i need to feel i have the licence to change everything by twisting my mind into knots and then unraveling them into a golden-thread cat's cradle

dear sir, please distrACT

'twas a long, nice-change-of-pace-if-academically-unproductive day of drama classes/workshops /rehearsals. yes, kind of odd. the five minutes before my eight-thirty drama class weren't wasted. entirely. well....

the thrift of tuesday theatre
– barely out of danger of monday,
words are spoken quietly.
set's only half painted
and the crisis is
more of a hasty denouement.
we thirst for tangible fictions,
but so much is reserved for friday.

Still a Tad Dizzy

... excerpts of New Year's Eve

The red pillowcase that Bill tied

over his lamp to make a rave-light

and the easy eloquence in Brandon's eyes

as he finally got comfortable with "the Corner Brook girls."

Energy: the crack of balls, incognizant union with physics

flowing through a pool queue, 

flowing through skilled human hands,

flowing through veins embittered, rich with wine.

Slowly-nibbled 

partridgeberry-studded

chocolate-kissed

banana bread. 

The cool salty 

chew of ham.

The last broad sips of red wine:

a holy-sounding sin,

Villa Maria. 

One fiery rectangle of wall

where drunken friendship scribbles   

are invited and will long remain.

Already the New Year has 

whacked us with poetry; 

I just don't know

how to 

say it

yet

Musing

I know that writing about truth is pretentious at best. But this is heartfelt pretension, so I am compelled to share it.

There is no truth until you put it in a story
- when your life winds up
and you're wondering about the failed yo-yo (didn't
someone tangle it, behind your back?) -

There is no truth
that you didn't first encounter in your alphabet soup,
that you didn't feel in the rough brush
of closeness to your dad's face,
and hear through the dawning light of his whispers
into your baby-shell ears.

There is no truth bubbling
in the pit of your stomach
when the sun alights
on a stage, walks
before your eyes,
dazzles all the infinite humanity of your senses
and there is no truth, none
in dying for any thing.
We die again and again,
for dusty words.

There is truth
just in the upper left-hand
window of your restlessness.

There is truth in the hunger
for the breaking-down of walls,
the erection of new cathedrals.
And most of all, in the warmth of blood
when you can understand all its deep flowing purpose.
There is truth, for whatever else it may bring,
in crimson flowers
melting the snow.

There is no truth
until you dance truth into existence.

Hm

It has no theme. It has no definitive or even symbolized subject matter. As I said - first-thought, first-written. Comment and go wild.


I and O


O - a self that needs no central study
and takes its solace in wholeness and 
emptiness simultaneously
- simultaneity is a funny concept -
As I think about this,
i wonder why ‘I’ is capitalized and not You
or even ‘We’ 
especially if We are mightier 
together than apart ...?
I is upstanding, pretentious, 
reaching out, in no direction
but up 
(also down, though it doesn’t 
want anyone to know that)
[ ... ]