Monday, May 14, 2012
I'm so glad to have an angry place to go. Where I can open my mouth and let things flow. Too often I'm interrupted mid-thought, cut short: So I'm more colorful here, after a sloppy retort. I tend to keep up appearances, too often polite: so I twist up my blankets and strangle the night. And I keep mental notes which look more like scratch, my ideas are stillborn, eggs forgetting to hatch. But I won't go back to window-watching, waiting my turn, I am in the thick of it now, and this forest does burn. you don't remember even though you were there, you earmark my heart like you are slicing a pear.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...