scissorsSome days, when I sit for my morning scribble, I read instead, go through pages, upon pages, of yesterdays’ scribbles, and I highlight interesting phrases, words, sentences. Then I randomly string them together, a puzzling, a mending, a review. And, it’s fun to see what happens. Just like watching Riana when she would play with buttons, string them together, over and over, un-string, and re-string, and again. Eye hand coordination. Or Bridget, when she would cut with scissors, her little jaw would snap in time with the blades. Early practice for tap dancing. Our faces follow our hands. Our brains so like to work hard. Here’s a random string of cut-up lines.

“I used to count lovers like railroad cars, I counted them on my side;
lately I don’t count on nothing, I just let things slide.”
Joni M.

Without Anchor: A Found Poem

I am without anchor
snuggled into the safety of the insane city
could everyone just get along?
everyone’s gone
acting like skunks
just move the shoes
just spray them
make space to dance
and sing fucking kumbaya

move through the door
all that bravado
not a brave bone in my body
full of foibles and fallacies and foolishness
I woke up thinking
“wtf” girl?
gotta find my bite
bold and brassy
my imagination of order
I swallowed myself
but cookies are richer
eat and sing and fly and write
before I spill it further

my hand always knows the way to my lips
there are women who have forever known
what was under the bed
a dropped blue robin egg
the cricket who stopped singing a few nights ago
feeling interruptive and interrupted
alone for a long time
kind of a dufus
with a couple seconds of flirt juice
kicked her right in the dream

trust in yourself, your god, or greater power, and in goodness
or, well, things will be calmer
yellow flowers make everyone sneeze
all as close to breathing as breathing
can be figuring and blathering
thinking is so habitual
humor and humility and simplicity
and to the red flags we see waving?
head games and insecurities
commit to being non-committal
so scary all this ich, the sludge, the sewage of humanity
a fallible scared curious human
each of us

 

via Daily Prompt: Commit

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