words…
When I first moved to L.A. it wasn’t because I had silver screen dreams. I was a writer. I couldn’t stand the smell of NY in the summer, and in the early 90’s L.A was cheap. So I packed my 100 or so odd journals and went to the City of Angels in hopes to put the pen to paper for real. Like get paid for it. Those beginning days were hard days. Stories for another time and place. But those daysI was writing a lot poetry. Or something like poetry. I took my notebook from place to place and found myself at open mic spoken word nights around that big city. I had no fear. I stood up and shouted out my life experiences to a bunch of strangers. Kinda like now I guess, but with a face and voice and an audience that is apparent (plus my life back then was slightly racier). Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot spoken word. Maybe I should hit the prose up and take it out on the town. Sula could be in the sling sucking on the nipple when I would slam the words out. That why if I am really bad at least my boob would be hanging out. Thats gotta get me some applause. Or at least a whistle.
My friend (thank you E.) shared this one with me by the great Pablo Neruda. What a writer. What a poem.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine From your open kisses, Your wet body wedged Between my wet body and the strake Of our boat that is made of flowers, Feasted, we guide it - our fingers Like tallows adorned with yellow metal - Over the sky’s hot rim, The day’s last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice And equinox, drowsy and tangled together We drifted for months and woke With the bitter taste of land on our lips, Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime And the sound of a rope Lowering a bucket down its well. Then, We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.
