Wednesday, November 18, 2009


I thought perhaps of making this story the third-persona type. "He came unstitched at the razor's rip along his neck. Soon his beard was again neat and the edge of sophistication sat where the neck met the underbelly of his words. Then he worried that no one noticed the red in his eyes, both the lateness and the earliness of 3 a.m. as he stood before a restroom mirror and had not understood the prose poetry he had read for a college course."

But the complications in viewpoint of such a story would be no more useful to me than the prose poems I could not understand, merely words, as upturned and annoying as the pop of my dog's tongue along her snout, producing an anxiety like an unkept lawn beneath my cheekbones. Fire!

So to hell with stories that aren't written for me. I'd rather the unpleasantness of horticulture.