on the wall,
  by their table,
  hangs a gaudy
  portrait of a large,
  pinkish woman
  whose upper lips
  seems far too
  pronounced.

this leads them into
  conversation…
  not of this less than
  attractive lady,
  so much as the
  art of portraiture.

one argues about style…
  ageless traditions…
  lighting and the likes.
the other,
  a flamboyant sort,
  speaks of the
  essence of the
  subject’s being…
  of spontenaity…
  and of the convenience
  of a snapshop
  (much to the horror of
  his friend).

make faces while you poop…
  every single time.
in the breath of that moment…
  in the tiled solitude of
  your warshroom…
  contort your face into
  childlike expressions of
  wonder and awe.
grimace loudly, without
  making a sound…
  till the splash hits
  your bum.

then laugh… perhaps giggle…
  and pray no one is
  waiting by the door.

do not follow me
  as i pace the street
  confused, saddened,
  unable to return home.
do not promise something
  that cannot be… a
  pleasant night, a
  longing fulfilled, a
  replacement for my
  wife.
for i am tired, and may
  believe you, if only
  for a moment… but
  for the rest of my days
  would i hate myself?
i doubt that i could ever
  see her face in
  your eyes.
so it is that i will walk
  home finally, to rest
  on her side of the bed…
  imagining that i can
  still feel her heat.

I saw a microwave waiting for
the bus this morning.

It sat squarely on the bench,
considerately off to the side
should any other appliances
need to travel.

I only spied it for a moment,
as the depth of the scene did
not strike me until I’d driven
some blocks onward.

I’d have liked to follow it
on its journey, if only to see
its destination (though perhaps
it is better to allow my
imagination the freedom
of not knowing).

I wonder if it stopped at the
mall, picked up a transfer, a
little sunscren, then finally
off to the beach.

For it is a beautiful, sunny
day, and the waves must
be righteous.

I would write, were it not for the novel in my hands… or shall I reverse the analogy?

I currently have three books open, waiting for my complete attention.  We’ll not discuss my computer which requires more repairs than did my ‘64 Dodge pickup, or my dog who most likely wishes it had opposable thumbs merely to make an adequate fist with which to strike me when I neglect her.

Time.

They have written songs about her.

They have written sonnets about her.

They have honored her with an entire magazine… full of… writing.

Why then do I find it so difficult to do the same?

I believe part of the problem is that I am a reader by nature.

We cannot confuse writing with reading.  One is a must.  One is a means of living… a means of breathing, lest that last breath echo from your lungs and draw with it everlasting words.

That is writing.  It is not a choice, but a birthright.

Write about the following word association:

storm : beauty

her words will never escape me,
  and so my perception of
  her… of all our years, is
  no longer real.
we had known each other since
  high school, and married
  early.
(I’d thought that I’d been
  the first and only.)
because of a depression that lasted
  ten years, I changed.  I don’t
  remember all of the times
  that she held me while I
  cried, but I still see her
  making love to me when
  the world was not such a
  bad place.
(I was not so pityful, and
  she was hungry.)
she had told me throughout those
  years that it was fine to
  break down… that I should
  take all the time needed to
  heal… that one day she would
  need me.

Write something using the following word association:

loud :  pain