30 min timed writing with a Prompt today by our Brother Veteran – Air Force – Rick, and so Patrick, Harvey, & Wes were missing, and Erick, Adam, Terre, and i as Veterans were here with our fearless leader Leilani
” what does it take to be a writer “
how the hell should i know
i just publish here, i have read there, and i won a contest once for i am the master race
which i am not by the way, U would have to listen to or read the poem for U’r self to c what i mean – promise U won’t scream unless it is exactly what U thought it should be and wanted it to b just that
what does it take to be a writer, after the ink dries when the paper is hanging high to the sky and the clouds are passing by, by, by, – why did U hit me in the eye, U did not listen to a word i said, did not read a word i wrote, and U are now hesitating to try to hit me in the throat, wanting to forever shut my mouth, shut my mind down, and keep me from saying whatever it is that i need to say, want to say, wish to say,
and so if i spray while i vehemently spew the words out of my mouth, like the Marine Corps D.I.’s, with the smokey brim all in U’r forehead making U cry, not because of my words, but because the words are the essence of your abuses, your usury, and maybe just a slight displacement of power i never had but in these words said – the power so great in the exposure of who U really are, of who U have hidden for the years that you murdered me
and still my person in this death, eyes peering through the clouds, just to see all of what i have missed in my ghost’s footsteps, walking paths of anguish that reveal the painted horrors on canvasses that meet in every, what you know to be, life situations. And this path never ends, it just bends. And there, up above on the hill side to the mountain is a pretend stop, but just go over that huge assed rock U call a mountain, and U will see the other side of the world, and deep in the forest U may again find that timely air giving breath to U’r lungs to breath again…, can i say this to myself
breath for the ghosts who walked breathless, taken aback from this day to the next, always wondering while walking on a crunchy ground in bewilderment, wondering whether or not the uncertainty will dissipate as the clouds do too, forming canvases of beautiful and mysterious shapes
what does it take to be a writer, in captivating my soul to the other collective whole, where the intricacies of common threads of pain and dread meet, the pin hole found in the cool damp cave that tries to hug U’r bones to the point of, U can go no more to that tiny bit of light that keeps vanishing as if it were some kind of fog, layered with reflections popping from eye to eye of bats hanging without sighs in their natural state
i find to no meaning that one is or is not a great writer, and what does it take. is it like a tree that falls in the forest, it makes it’s sound regardless if you are there to hear it, the world hears it, the animals and bugs hear it, sense it, and some are smashed by it, with or without U being around to hear it, see it, or too, to be smashed by it.
the words on the page, it took some times the build up of anguish, other times it took the built up anger to spill on paper instead of triggered by a finger sending metal to unwilling recipients in most cases, to a state of blood loss that can never be recouped.
in the mind’s frames that flutter to a slow crawl when thinking about the words to put on a stage, where singers come into play with orchestrated dance, but few are, or have lyricists, who talk about the realities spilling out before us, to lend the importance of an acute ear straining to hear every bit of what has been written, to the importance of wanting to change each and every aspect of the uncivil practices happening in their neighborhoods, and in cities, barrios, slums, and ghettos all over the world – where that saying holds no weight… when looking at just how precious life is – when tragedies burgle it away to the steps of the underworld, where worms are king of the lifeless lived, taking its next form.
so writing these words, it takes coming to the Veteran Writer’s Workshop to shop around the thoughts that are meandering around those nerve endings, just wondering if they too will get a little air time, a little time on pappled bark or rice; it takes doing my own timed writings in the closet, a tiny room on skid row L.A., it takes being brave enough, being adventurous, being keen to the pains of others, wanting to change the world, your world, your neighborhood, your dilemma, yourself, for U or for all U can reach
it takes much more than this to be a writer! 13:15:14
pappled (my word for paper out of beaten wood or rice, or however it is made)