To write is to decide that certain words in a certain order hold some sort of meaning, and more, to write is to decide that those words are worth their labor.
Writers put in time, and cash in their rewards (which they sign up for early on--payment plans include but are not limited to self-gratification, recognition of others, preservation of events/thoughts/time, etc.).
As writers, [they're] often asked why [they] do it (if you haven't figured it out, [they're] the ones doing the asking). [The writer] knows [he's/she's] thought about it. [He's/She's] even written about it. [The writer] reasoned that it was something [he/she] enjoyed and left it at that.
Really, though, [the writer] thinks [he/she] just want attention, and this is [his/her] ideal way of getting it. They have a payment option for that? Sign [this writer] up.
Of course, attention or recognition (or, hell, even acknowledgment would do), are contingent upon other people reading what [the writer] has to write.
In lieu of this luxury, [the writer] realizes that [he/she] can compose word combinations mentally just as easily as [he/she] can literally (as the latin root relates to "by the letter"), and ceases to do the latter.
Does the world mourn?
[This writer] does.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Captain (with new version!)
A variation on “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden
Summers also Captain woke early
And cawed his beak off in the early dawn
Then with soft chirps that soothed
From grogginess in the lazy morning, made
Sleepy eyes open. Mike never thanked him.
Captain would sit and dream of the day opening, unfolding.
When his cage was opened he’d float
And flutter. Mike could cook and clean,
Knowing the resulting freedoms of that schedule,
Calling furiously at Captain
Who had knocked over the vase
And nudged all the picture frames as well
What did Mike know, what did Mike know
Of friendship’s veiled and subtle avenues?
---
In summertime especially, Captain woke early
with a chirp and a wrraawk! that shook the blinds.
Mike would wake, grey sheets over eyes
that refused to give in without a fight.
Morning moans battled beating wings,
but Captain’s wake up call was triumphant.
Mike never thanked him.
When Captain’s cage was opened he’d hop around,
warm up laps for the final show,
then take off in wide circles.
Mike would cook breakfast for them both,
clean the dishes he had left from the night before,
and call furiously at Captain,
who had tipped over the vase
and nudged all the picture frames just so—
especially that picture of Karen
the one with the white dress, from last August—
as if to say “Where did she go?”
And Mike would stop washing the dishes.
He would stop, and considering the magnitude of things,
he would cry.
Summers also Captain woke early
And cawed his beak off in the early dawn
Then with soft chirps that soothed
From grogginess in the lazy morning, made
Sleepy eyes open. Mike never thanked him.
Captain would sit and dream of the day opening, unfolding.
When his cage was opened he’d float
And flutter. Mike could cook and clean,
Knowing the resulting freedoms of that schedule,
Calling furiously at Captain
Who had knocked over the vase
And nudged all the picture frames as well
What did Mike know, what did Mike know
Of friendship’s veiled and subtle avenues?
---
In summertime especially, Captain woke early
with a chirp and a wrraawk! that shook the blinds.
Mike would wake, grey sheets over eyes
that refused to give in without a fight.
Morning moans battled beating wings,
but Captain’s wake up call was triumphant.
Mike never thanked him.
When Captain’s cage was opened he’d hop around,
warm up laps for the final show,
then take off in wide circles.
Mike would cook breakfast for them both,
clean the dishes he had left from the night before,
and call furiously at Captain,
who had tipped over the vase
and nudged all the picture frames just so—
especially that picture of Karen
the one with the white dress, from last August—
as if to say “Where did she go?”
And Mike would stop washing the dishes.
He would stop, and considering the magnitude of things,
he would cry.
Point Being? (with new version!)
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm then most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know no more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and I’ll probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Anyway, I think of you and me and recoil. You’re sweet, of course, but really, you’re not my type. The heatwaves stop jamming radar and go back to work burning bridges. Did I get off in time? I imagine myself crisp and blackened, like a tortilla left on a stove too long, and duck inside. The trees reflect a living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sanctity. What can I say? What can I say? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point. Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
---
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.
I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
---
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.
I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
Granite-Grinding (with new version!)
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
When we are at the last removed
From granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
And figured out an alibi for why
My homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good
But it wasn’t. You seemed to know;
I thought to talk
But when I tried to speak I choked
And all the things I meant to say
Were lost to me, just the same.
Our drinks emptied themselves;
Rings of foam restrained from lips
That thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine
Awaiting what would be the next time.
And even though I hardly know
Which way to go
I often see
You, friend
Beside me.
---
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
when we are at the last removed
from granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
and figured out an alibi for why
my homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good.
You nodded in that way you do
when what I say is not quite true.
We sat there while our drinks were brewed
and finally you asked what’s up.
But when I tried to speak I choked,
and all the things I needed to say…
Our drinks emptied themselves;
rings of foam restrained from lips
that thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine.
At times I thought the black of night
would touch me with a darker soul.
But then I saw, and now I see
that you, my friend, are beside me.
It goes to show what we can do
When we are at the last removed
From granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
And figured out an alibi for why
My homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good
But it wasn’t. You seemed to know;
I thought to talk
But when I tried to speak I choked
And all the things I meant to say
Were lost to me, just the same.
Our drinks emptied themselves;
Rings of foam restrained from lips
That thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine
Awaiting what would be the next time.
And even though I hardly know
Which way to go
I often see
You, friend
Beside me.
---
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
when we are at the last removed
from granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
and figured out an alibi for why
my homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good.
You nodded in that way you do
when what I say is not quite true.
We sat there while our drinks were brewed
and finally you asked what’s up.
But when I tried to speak I choked,
and all the things I needed to say…
Our drinks emptied themselves;
rings of foam restrained from lips
that thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine.
At times I thought the black of night
would touch me with a darker soul.
But then I saw, and now I see
that you, my friend, are beside me.
Monster Truck (with new version!)
(New version following the original)
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
---
Monster Truck
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
---
Monster Truck
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
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