sometimes it just needs to be visual while the words re-organize themselves. it’s a slow-cooker/thoughts/ideas/all chopped up & tossed in for consideration/stewing/pressure-cooking. a mixture of flavors some savory, others sweet, some distasteful, more full-bodied/pungent/aromatic/herb-encrusted. presentation must be considered/country/formal/china/chinette® (you know who you are)/linen/paper/everyday on the couch in front of the tv (goddamn tv.)
but time passes (don’t all writers deal in time? it’s their vice/their drug/their addiction) & one day, one week, one year (many years later) it comes out in a rush of pen/pencil/keyboard, cursor & orgasmic and then, the constant revision/adjustment (too tight underwear/not tight enough [going commando] who needs to see it all right now?)
writers are ecdysiasts–words their music, sentences opera gloves, paragraphs a boa (not constrictor,) chapters a feathered slipper–each note/word revealing a little more/the reader/patron panting drooling slipping a twenty in a garter for encouragement
those letters, each individual one so important, so loved, so cared for & nurtured, a child’s garden of verses (remember?) how you loved words & how the world blossomed in front of you as a b c became a window/doorway/road out of the confines of yourself, your circumstances, a circumnavigation of the world/exotic/insightful/frighteningly beautiful.
and now, that love/fear are yours to share/tentative hesitant steps leading to that great exposure/exhibitionist that you are/voyeur too. it comes to this the presentation the hoped-for-response (& sometimes none) love me do/don’t/alright fuck you/oh god i need you to love me so basic so human so wonderful.