August 29, 2006

Got a call from the man

I got an email this morning that made me smile. Big smile. Little steroids. It's all related. You know?

Ok, so who sent the email.

My all-time favorite college professor, the guy who taught me how to make poetry out of poetry, fuckit, he taught me how to get inside words and stencil the edges back to you, right, that's who, and he asked if I could help with some advice for his first in-class blog.

My answer, in short, Hell, yeah!

I reconnected with Jerry a couple months back via email. Last time we jammed about life and loss and words, it was 22 years ago, when I was his student. Now, personally, I don't think that's possible. The 22 years part. I'm blaming the drugs. And yet, right, the 80s. Remember?

Transported.

October winds toss my hair with smoke from the pack's last cigarette, late morning bile still bitter on my tongue, feet up on the back of a chair, its sprawled aluminum legs like a steel whore turning tricks. Crusted blood from freshly chewed cuticles adorn fingers that clench a medium-tip Bic, extra thick ink gives texture to my grief, coal black tears trace memory across the stark white skin and razor blue veins of my composition book.

That was the act of writing before pixels. For me, something sacred.

Jerry, I can't wait to help.


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