Yeah, I write. I write America, I write Greece, I write anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. I write sadness and blood and I write war. I write more than nation or city or face or fingers or genitalia. I write.
I write like art, art that can be paint on a canvas, arranged plaster, fecal matter in a can or edible furiniture.
I write like life.
Forget writing America, I want to write people.
I want to write stretch marks and rib cages. I want to write wrinkle lines and tweezed eyebrows and spider veins.
Why does creativity have to be measured by rhyme, meter, grammar or process? Why can't the work bring the process, instead of the process birthing the result?
I want to write oceans with spraying foam.
Bright pink binders on a library cushion.
Two bodies on a piano room floor.
The leafy green of a fern tickling my cheek.
The foam off a beer.
The ecstacy of jumping on the bed.
Diet wild cherry soda.
Dust on the carpet.
The age rings of trees.
The ridges of my mouse-pad.
I want to write life, and even if no one will read my words about experience; about John Mayer and luke warm coffee mugs, I will still write life and America.
And penguins and explorers in Antarctica.
I will write stairs.
"Swim in a deep sea of blankets."
Love. Love. Love.