“How does it feel so gooood?” says the blonde on the corner. She stretches her arms and legs receiving a suggestion of October. The breeze is sexy today. I suggest it now.
It is Vacation Day 2 and my hangover ain’t so bad. The dreams were strange—I was in a bar getting rowdy when I received a phone call from a blonde at the bank about my debt. She admits a mistake which led to my debt in the first place. She starts crying and says, “I’ll probably lose my job… but at least I can reduce your interest rate…”
Summer is over and I anticipate taking things a little easier to lock down on nightly napkin writing at various pubs and feeling the buzz of the future life with the buzz of this life here and now. It does require a little faith. The sentence you write may or may not have merit. They call you a poet warrior, but do you have the courage to hack down your own sentences along the way? If not, you’re not a poet and you’re not a warrior. You’re just a broadcaster. It is a welcome challenge to depart from writing the longer pieces and come down to the shorter lines within a flakey, unforgiving six-inch square. Not only do I read these pieces on stage the very night I write them, some people—as I’m writing—are curious to see what’s cracking. They offer large sheets of paper to sink my teeth into. But this is the process and it’s taking care of me. Who imagined such a revenge plot would take root here?