It's readership. Always has been, among writers. Shame. I felt burnt out this evening, tired. I decided to do some writing that is a bit different than what I have been doing. Cute waitress, her day off, agrees, and so does her sig, through the looking glass. It goes a little something like this:
Poetry requires rewrites; expository writing does not She sits tall on the back of her pink elephant. Above everything else pretending to know and not care that our pointed jeers are meant to unseat her from an outrageous path. She spills everything in her way and I trip and stumble Around the monster legs of her beast. It's so very hip not to belong. To ride high and proud on the back of your own particulate dream, isn't it. Fuck off, get off your high horse. I'd rather be a clown; one of those silly happy ones knowing it's fun to laugh at the flow. She doesn't care, really. I mean about things and people which have their own certain way. She just wants to break convention. Does she drive with tunnel vision? Is she half put to sleep by ecstatic communion? Her animal moves under her loins like greasy beef. "Stupid to walk." These questions and fifty others I ask over and over again, like chasing tails and grapes. If she lets me ride her pink elephant, Will I have to pay the fitty-cent? It's her elephant. It's her pink. I think she *wants* to ride alone. [on old paper, over the counter -- think my defs of gender and ability and their associations, and magnitude of readership and intended effect. Framed by The Who, John Lennon, and other authors of great readership. Jimi picks his guitar with his teeth for stinky, and hands for clean.]
