justwrite 12 august

let’s take cooler breaths the air is fairer in the mix the tricks all turn out clockwise eggs hatch and matches catch flame out of thin space the creation of nothing from something the transformation of matter into something that doesn’t a weight heaving heavy on have-not shoulders has gotten colder has been switched off no conversation of laws no giving of pause when other buttons could be pushed rushed off and misrhymed the chimes and the hourglass clinking on each other calling bitter bitter sweet to be made honey and fading roses the cozy rose early the tea all surly with the leftover messages the dregs begging to be read the leftbehind waiting to be fed but there is no time for that sort of meal no deal to steal with those empty hands I am landing before flight I am taking off in the night and the glare compares with a sideways day to prey on empty to shuffledown full waiting and fading dirt hurtling roots into the earth take this and grow it show it sun and mercy rehearsals after endless stretches the directions without chance for corrections close eyes and open again the same scene the lines misspoken a token curtain comes down and up we see the next step a new cast is ushered in but still the planted feet stored in the floorboards right at the center spotlight done right all are attentive and what’s the incentive what’s the motivation how will that frustration burn into motion how will the character matter how will the mutterings reach the audience who’ve just realized they’re there and where they were before no one can tell and it’s just as well because I thought I had a different story to tell one that’s been brewing and swelling up cupsfull tipping over and there’s each time a chance to write it but I bite off a different start and the readers have already gone off to sleep to cough to amuse themselves in other ways they’re called plays they’re not seriouses they’re something to test a field of combat without blood and to cast out the rest leaving tested lines to rhyme true is to do you credit is to spend an author’s chance and the rest of us dance our novels into corners short stories into cartwheels and poems ah imagine where else can they go but straight into cereal bowls and pillows and the morning whiteblue ceiling