[this was penned by friend and ridiculously talented writer L.W. in 2006, somewhere in south central Minnesota, when I prodded her to do something that included twenty-five compound words and the specific combination of one of my all-time favorite combinations, "intransigent wont"...]
---
Remember what The Who said about
a teenage wasteland? Don't cry, travel south. I don't understand,
anyway, why I'm always searching for clarity: life as empty as a baldhead,
hairlines already receded, reaching for a book of paperback poems at my bedside
bookmarked at the careless parts. I'll fishhook
nearby answers as though they're an intransigent wont-- all this knowing. I'll sit-up
with a headache, all ups and downs, the pain like the dull red of a darkroom.
and through a keyhole, here's what you'll see: a thunderstorm
uprooted. That doesn't make sense: Imagine sunburn
in pale sunlight, pinking while you're not paying attention, tiptoeing
backwards, coming at you like ideas can only come: in your hometown.
At bedtime. Like fingerprints.
