Jul 2012
I haven’t written one word about you.
You, the source, the spring-head, the furled
man that lives in the corner of a *****
motel where salty sand meets asphalt.
I haven’t told you I’m a writer, that I want
to write until my hand is mush and the paper
is covered with my slime memories.
Like the humor, choler, fire. The yellow
fire of your beer spilled on the glass
coffee table; the orange fire of the hot
dish soap water cleaning out the stingray
sting (Mom was so mad); the red fire
of your red-neck in the sun by the rusty
fenced-in pool. I haven’t told you I don’t
miss you, or that I do.
You, the source, the spring-head, the furled
man that lives in the corner of a *****
motel where salty sand meets asphalt.
I haven’t told you I’m a writer, that I want
to write until my hand is mush and the paper
is covered with my slime memories.
Like the humor, choler, fire. The yellow
fire of your beer spilled on the glass
coffee table; the orange fire of the hot
dish soap water cleaning out the stingray
sting (Mom was so mad); the red fire
of your red-neck in the sun by the rusty
fenced-in pool. I haven’t told you I don’t
miss you, or that I do.
Last semester I took an Intro to Shakespeare Lit class. My professor talked about how there are four humors that correspond with four ****** fluids and that also correspond with the four elements. I chose the humor that corresponded with fire, which happened to be choler. Also, this is surprisingly the first draft and I'm really proud of it. I still have the original sprawled in my journal.
March 19, 2012
March 19, 2012
