Friday, May 04, 2012

Fighting Myself

Words I shouldn't use in poems again (or, at least at any time soon or with too great a frequency): no more "hands", no holding, touching, fingertips or palms flattened, no "knuckles", although I can't think of a single poem that succeeds with "knuckles", but aside from that, no more "branches": tree branches, branching ideas, or ribbons of electricity through the air, that smell of burning ozone all around you, charged, and no more "air" for that matter, and no more "hair" for that matter: things hide in there, or are placed, left or hidden, accidentally or on purpose, but my purpose, if you understand that I'm still talking about words I should stay away from, words I think I tend to rely on to a degree that worries me, those times when I'm placing them in the capstone spot of yet another otherwise reasonably good, yeah, this is a poem and I'm talking about poetry in poetry and describing words with words, using words to discuss language and thoughts externalized through poetic cliché, an excuse to shy away from the topic at hand, the list being revealed, or built, assembled, or called out really, a list which lives like a glowing neon strand of DNA (an acronym, sure, but still a word and one that I don't have to worry about overusing) inside of me, my body, this mass of misunderstanding, misunderstood meats and chemistry, gerunds finding their way into this, for lack of a better comprehensive indicator, a justification for spending ridiculous amounts of time alone typing at some machine or other, peering with blurred eyes, burning sometimes and usually red, at the white light of a screen, typing, and thinking about all the words I shouldn't use in the realm of my writing, my poetic, my work, for lack of a better...

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