you always start with a look. no words. just a sizing up of loyalty. the words come later. always.
eyeing a trusting body up & down, you decide it’s worth the sacrifice. you determine that an open heart can survive the firm press of your lips as you suck the life out of her.
you steal all her “firsts”, take her to get her first tattoo and ink your desperate desires onto her life.
tied to the beds of your grip, she builds a super power against your pressure. turns her head and learns to appreciate the moments that pass as you finish your daily fit.
now she can see you coming from 100 miles away, dimming the lights to your preference.
she is obsidian, rooted at the base of her spine, and swallowing the shit of the world.
I loved this piece when I originally wrote it, but I lent it to a RECORD-SCRATH REVISION…
you never end with a look. all words. just a diminishing of commitment. the words come early. always.
eyeing a disbelieving body left & right, you decide it’s worth the rise. you determine that a closed mind can survive the loose release of your center as you exhale the life out of her.
you protect all her “firsts”, take her to get her final tattoo and erase your desperate desires onto her life.
released from the skies of your grip, she builds a super power against your pressure. straightens her head and learns to overlook the moments that pass as you finish your hourly fit.
now she can see you coming from an itty-bitty inch away, cleaning the lights to your preference.
she is metta, rooted at the high of her heart, and spitting out the shit of the world.
I would be beyond excited to try this strategy with students.
I would start by letting them hear a ‘record scratch’ (maybe via video, maybe via my mouthed-sound-effects and horrible acting skills, maybe via dragging in a record player to the classroom).
We would discuss abrupt change and how every moment of our lives, and therefore every word we write, is up for conversation and revision.
We would talk about what writers do; they constantly twist & turn with language. They don’t revise because they are told to do so. They do it because they can’t resist the play. They access resources (the dictionary, the thesaurus, other writers), not because the authoring standards say-so, but because they want to see what is possible.
We would find a piece we have written that is ready for play (historically, and boringly, known as revision). We would use the thesaurus to find opposites and learn how the writing finds new meaning. We would decide what words we like and what words we don’t. In the end, we wouldn’t limit ourselves to just finding opposites via the thesaurus; this original nudge would lead us to so much more. We would begin to discern sounds, speech and expressions; we would change and become empowered with our own next thoughts.