The past two weeks have been a struggle. I wish I could figure out how to get a novel off of the ground and run with it, but something keeps holding me back. I don't think it's time yet...
In case you were wondering, the feature I had last Thursday went well. Although the town got dumped on with buckets upon buckets of rain, the turnout was decent. The people were great (thank you to those who came out to support).
I've come to the conclusion a while ago that relaxation and writing don't mix well with my personality. I've always been more productive when I've given myself deadlines. Maybe that's what I'll have to do about the next chapbook in order to get things moving along. There's only one problem... the goddamn typewriter doesn't write this shit for me.
Is Mercury out of retrograde yet?
Enough astrology... Poetry time (it's an old one that I found in a stack of papers in my filing cabinet).
___________________________
The Way He Drank
It wasn't about how well
he could could get it all out of him,
and put the demons on the page
before they consumed him.
It was the way he drank
that I found the most poetic.
I saw a picture
in which
she--
smiling--
wrapped her arms around his
bulging waste,
as he
lifted that bottle to his lips,
threw back his head
as far as it would go
until it became a shelf
for afternoon sunlight.
He must have been drinking
to drown one special demon
that he had noticed
creeping down from his heart
to the pit of his stomach--
and taking a break to rest--
before crawling down to his colon
and yanking that wild hair
he had up his ass.
No matter how much you drink,
You
will
always
drown
first.
The picture depicted what was most important
to him.
And she
just thought the world of that man.
Cheers.
________________________________________
Yours,
~Torres
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