From the trees comes the sap...

I started writing a monologue about faking love, based on some facebook input to my question, "At what point do we fear the same human intimacy we want/crave? And, why will we settle for faked love?"

And next thing I know, I'm like cutting text and hitting the tab key all up in here and suddenly I had the first poem I've written in years.

I've been reading a lot of poetry here which I don't do too often. When I'm stuck on words I like reading them shilled down to their essence.

I am still pretty creatively constipated though. Right now, I'm at the place, where this scrīpt is now just labor. I know what needs to be in it. I just need to buckle in and go go go.

I'm not sure where my creative process is taking me. But it's taking me somewhere crazy introspective and this play has yet to get done already.

In the meantime, enjoy a rare dose of Walt Whitman Wongster!

WHEN THE MOTIONS WILL SUFFICE

Like buying a New York City umbrella during an unsuspected storm. I didn’t have time to test it. Just open it above me, and have faith it would work until I made my way home. (You were there and I was wet.)

We imagine doing this in the most imaginable honest way imagined but our eyes still turn away as our arms stretch open for each other. (This is how people get hit by cars. Because they don’t look where they’re going.)

I still hold with me this last moment of you tangled here under four layers of bedsheets that flipped their original order during our earthquake. Like a geologist got drunk then diagrammed the earth from its crust to core from memory. (sense of order so we too lost all when motioned like love in we were) (order of sense lost like we were in love when we motioned too like)

I made my bed before you came by, as if I had always been a neat one. With each pat and swipe, I erased the previous guests like a hotel maid. I stretched the sheets so tight it was as if my bed had never so much as been seen before. I wanted us to leave an imprint on this canvas together. I wanted you to leave feeling like we penned a masterpiece together. I wanted you to leave believing you were a wunderkind. I wanted you to leave. I didn’t want you to leave. (But rather than risk hating your writing, I just assume not read it.)

Say we are driving a rented BMW convertible on the freeway. (Put it on the charge card. I will figure out how to pay it off later. ) My ponytail goes undone and the split ends of my hair scrape, whip, and stick to my face. My contact lenses go dry on my eyeballs. I’ll blink until my eyes secrete natural tears so I can see the road ahead without squinting. (So my eyes don’t scratch themselves blind in the fury of speed.) That’s why people love convertibles. You grab that much more sky by convertible than by foot. (Though, with the sky, you can’t take it with you. Plus, it grabs you.) And, I will scream to you from the passenger seat how this windy ride, where we cannot even hear each other, where my palms press but cannot hold those almost new black leather seats, where you may hear me and then forget sooner than I will, but I will scream dry eyes, messy hair and all:

This is the best ride ever. The most fun I’ve had in my entire life.