I’ve taken several extended breaks from writing lately, and I’m having a hard time getting back into the swing of things. More specifically, I’m not able to sit down and write poems with the same flow and rhythm that I’ve become accustomed to. Freewriting has also been my go-to solution in such times, though I’ll admit the results are usually more coherent than this. No matter. I’m doing my best to show up at the blank page, inspiration or not.
I edited the following poem (despite appearances). I enjoy the strangeness of it, and perhaps you will, too
Some Thoughts
Several months ago, I stood
beside your voice, which said,
“The veterinary meat of pork
builds the unstable foundation
of the Prufrock-sized hole in me.”
The visible bone of the city snakes
through the cement of my mind
and makes my secret life like a sun
spy and the type of person who returns
gifts and shoots the mall Santa for this hell.
I cannot remember what I was saying,
except I’m responsible for the hive mind
and the untimely separation of your soup.
Last week, I was kidnapped, but color
lights were beaten, and I got fish to bite.
I’ve given up trying to write traditional stories (at least, for now). Instead, I’m just letting the words do what they want. In this case, the words made me say, “What the hell?” Incidentally, the picture has nothing to do with the story. I just typed “weird” in the Flickr Creative Commons search bar and clicked on the one that made me laugh.
“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Glinda asked. She wasn’t the Good Witch, or a witch at all. She was just Glinda, and she didn’t know how to dress herself despite being thirty-three. She had a maid help her. The maid’s name was Fuzzy. She was a cat, but a really smart one with a keen fashion sense and a remarkable vocabulary.
“Like the moon?” Charley suggested. He was fond of the moon and its wild temperature swings. He was also rather partial to radiation.
“The moon’s too far,” Glinda lamented.
“It’s not that far if you travel with your imagination.”
“Like Mr. Roger’s?”
“Sure, if Mr. Roger’s was a kick-ass space explorer.”
“Mr. Roger’s is plenty kick-ass without adding ‘space explorer’ to his already impressive resume,” Glinda said. Her hair dragged the floor, and she suffered from excessive optimism, the kind that made Charley nervous.
“Whatever,” Charley said. “Are we going to the moon or not?”
“Not. What I have to say can be said here. It’s private enough.”
“The bugs are listening.”
“I’m not worried what a few bugs think, if they think anything at all.” Glinda took a deep breath. “Ok, here it is. I’m worried you might not be real.”
Charley rubbed his chin. The thought had occurred to him, too. It was troubling notion, that he might not be real. Glinda’s realness was never in question. Was that strange or is that how things were supposed to go?
“Does it matter if I’m real or not?” Charley asked. “We still like each other.”
“We do?” Glinda felt warm inside. She thought Charley kind of hated her.
“Well, we tolerate each other.”
Glinda felt her insides clam up. She would never be the apple of Charley’s eye, or of anyone’s. The only creature that loved her was Fuzzy…maybe. Or maybe Fuzzy was just doing her job?
“Now that we’ve settled that, I’m off to check out the moon,” Charley said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yes,” Glinda whispered.
“Toodle-oo,” Charley said and blinked out of sight.
Glinda settled onto the floor and tried to cry, but she’d forgotten how. Or maybe she’d never learned in the first place.
Writing for Ghosts 