I have always thought that writing; real writing had to be something private
Something that you had to put out there
A thing that you felt about yourself
Like you are standing up in a room and you had to make fun of yourself
And you hit these emotions that never get hit publicly
Sort of hidden
And the audience relates to it
But you are wrong/ I was wrong/ maybe not
What I have to say tonight I can say in a million short winded stories
And I can beat around the bush
But if you want to know about me
If you want to drive home to me and sleep in my mind
You will see that it hurts, that it is full of hope, ambition; you will see that it fails
It just isn’t happening
“Shit kid I could write circles around all these girls out there”
It should be obvious
That you want to ride my coat tail
It should be obvious when I talked you into being with me
(A story I wanted to write written on a napkin, like a screen play)
CRASS? SIMPLE
-Ethiopian jokes, you know all the jokes you told as a kid
…how many Ethiopians could fit in a shower/ none, they all fall down the drain
…how many Ethiopians could you fit in phone booth/ all of them
… What Eval keniviels greatest trick/ driving though Ethiopia with a chicken strapped to his back
(NASA jokes follow)
Then
There, as a kid playing tag, us jumping though air, arms extended like Jesus to grab chunks of steel, our feet gripping tires bolted to dead trees
How Wesley moved
How Cody moved
How we moved
So simple
(Confused transition)
A story about women, about my wife… her breasts hanging down into my face like hot flashes of a dream.
Amber there for me, then against me, then for me, then never knowing me, but me still and always thinking of her like a succubus.
I fall in
Transition
Lost
And excused
Erasing myself with each word until I become as white as the page I write upon
New and starting over
(STORY GOES CRASS AGAIN)
-cocky and deflective
-a girl I loved and lost
-the girls I loved and lose
Every thing simple again
(End with a joke about Ethiopians… going back to simple)
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