photo by maja trochimczyk
"$120,000 later and I'm 24 with a degree from a supposedly 'prestigious' institution... and no job. Typical of a writer, I suppose. My family consists of a minister in a Southern Baptist church, a public school teacher of 35 years, a farmer, a department store owner and then there's the poet. I didn't actually consider myself to be a writer until about seven months ago when I realized the decline in my emotional stability plummeted in direct relation to the amount of writing I was actually doing. So with or without publication, I can't stop it. The writing that is. It is just who I am."
Asking to dance
"I don't want to be crazy anymore;"
Not within toffee-brown walls or angry
She's not even asking me--
not even asking for a dance;
not for time to steal a wicker basket full of lollipops and rainbows.
"if you're asking…"
she's wanting a slow one.
"if you're asking.."
I can't watch them pull it apart;
pull it from the 18 years of training
how to pull yourself apart.
He's opening his arms out to sleep
across wood-polished squares with the next best
And she's shuffling to the thud of syncopated ink
"I'm not asking you to please me"
I'm asking for a world that revolves inside you.
asking for a hand thrown into the air
and an exploding...
I'm asking for pain.
"But do you want to take it this far?"
We'll go out into the middle of breath.
Well go abroad to scatter pieces of us among the reflection of strobes and mirrored-balls.
it shouldn't be as if we're fighting.
I'm not asking for a fight.
I'm asking to disappear into my own comfort;
to accept my uncoordinated attack on pleasure.
I'm asking for the dancing to end.