Words Pressed to Flesh

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Tree branches silhouette a violet-grey sky, bearing their leafless limbs like elegies carved black into night and I’m listening Tom Waits and thinking about cigarettes and whiskey because there’s a blues to my mood and I just want to see red, but the evening stays muted and I sip my tea alone in thought.

I feel transparent despite being told I am difficult to read. My dad used to say I made a better door than a window when I stood infront of the television. And maybe there is something in the saying. Or maybe he could have turned off the television.

Maybe that is why my pen feels so comfortable pressing paper instead of ears, my words are for hearts held closely to the page, my heart is a whisperer of dreams. I like that my hand can feel the connection. We’re the flashing lights of Vegas bedazzled in technology. It’s all smoke and mirrors–  mirage. We project a story, but just selected prose, no words before we cross them out, no inbetween the lines; we project ourselves as we wish to be seen and not who we are– I hear most of my girl friends complain about rampant photoshopping of models and I can’t help but think we are photoshopping ourselves. Is Facebook and social media connecting people? Or perpetuating the immediacy of our times, surface knowledge and face-value? Inquiring minds want to know: Where are all the inquiring minds? Where is the empathy? There is a disconnect; I can feel it. I could feel it as a child standing between the idea of father and the reality of T.V. as god, and I can feel it now when I see how we treat one another with such indelicacy despite the hurt.

Richard Brautigan wrote, “Ah, you’re just a copy of all the candy bars I’ve ever eaten.”

I don’t want a xerox copy.

I don’t want the edited version.

I want the visceral, pressed words to flesh.

I’m listening to Tom Waits and thinking about cigarettes and whiskey and wanting to see red.

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