If idle handsare the devil’s plaything,do angels ownmy dried cuticles,split nailsand chapped palms?
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Su brought a poem to a creative writing class when she was in college. The professor “rewrote” it for her. When she suggested that it no longer said what she wanted to say, he said, “What’s important is that I made it better.” Su suggested he write his own fucking poems and walked out, and never went back.
The professor was an idiot, but Su learned something important; you can teach craft, you can teach mechanics, but don’t tell an artist what to communicate. She’s carried this lesson forward her entire life.
“`Tis poetry,” said the silly turdsAs babbled they about their verse.All whimsical, their Hallmark wordsDid make the subject worse. “Beware the metaphor,” said one,“It isn’t needed for our lines.Beware the simile, it’s like-Ly to mess up our minds!” Their selves full of hyperboleThey disregarded spelling, rhyme.Their “pomes” were built in…
The heat is a beast — no bark, all bite. It nibbles my neck, it chews at my crotch. Its tongue licks my armpits. Its saliva tickles as it dribbles down my sIt hunts me i relentlessly. d My only defense e is to huddle s …
Riding on the leather strapHis father used to transport himTo Mexico, Peru, Iraq —All far-off lands where memories dim —He longs for words in kind terrainHe longs for love, for tendernessBut just gets handed whips and painWhile bruises mark his wildernessWhile bruises mark his wilderness… Certain now no one can…