Writing in the Portland sun, words & words & more words spilling out and over. The clouds will soon enough o'ertake the sky once more, but in the moment it's these things I'm thinking of: Joseph Arthur, Hemingway & Faulkner & the ghosts of worlds forgotten, your week in the woods. The stories we'd each and all tell, had our shaky fingers the tongues to speak them.
Closest I've come recently this line - If we are the oats we sow, I am a junk show scarecrow - all meat & bone & no gristle, ever and forever always a mess - of which I was irrationally proud. Perhaps because it seemed your voice in part, perhaps because it made me think of one of mom's jokes (Also one of my favorites: why'd the chicken cross the road? Because it was poultry in motion.), perhaps because someone else liked it too, enough to question whether or not it was mine. Still, words & words & more words spilling over.
This submission, dead and gone and done, and I've a realization: we're forever submitting, you and I, without quite the courage to push 'send' or 'publish,' aren't we? The lines between metaphor and accepted reality is rarely less clear, these writers forever drafting internally even as we avoid the dirty creating. In truth, this too near enough joined the same long litany, these thoughts and words that bounced around enough as to almost not, almost long enough to fade away & be gone... But won't you know, all this riding's near enough the same as all that running, & and coming back around to the metaphors: I'm getting damn good at swimming 'til I'll no longer see land. Codes & metaphors have forever it seems been the norm - & I'll keep right on where plain language would almost certainly better suffice. I've this notion these drunken shenanigan-laced nights of a Tesla Jesus that would somehow approve, though... and maybe that'll, for a moment at least, be enough. Yes... let that be enough.
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