here's the piece I wrote on monday, in final-first draft form. I did two revisions, the first while listening to Burning Brides (not the rewarding experience it used to be) and then while listening to The Smiths. Hmmm. I lost some of the cool lines from the first version and the meaning is changed a bit, but I think as a whole this is a better version.
6/6/08 Pieces of Energy
some days I wake up with the pounding
in the back of my head saying “hey. hey. hey.
aren’t you glad you get to do this over again?”
and I think about the writers who’ve famously let their
writer clichés clasp to their ankles and drag them
over the edges of bridges or deep into tunnels,
stark, silent twilights where the weight of all that
heartbreak and expectation crushed their fingers.
knocked out their teeth; they suck their vices through
straws now. I think about this, rollover, face-into-
pillow and demand more sleep. Dream about re-directing
that ankle-dragging energy, upbraiding clichés with action,
maybe winning an award. I practice acceptance speeches
in my sleep, softly chewing the edge of my pillow until
I’m jolted awake by the mid-morning fire alarm.