Cuisin Art

i was out collecting words on the city streets as night fell over the skyscrapers and the ends of the avenues burned with sinking sunlight like acetylene flares.

i scooped up bits of broken phrases from the litter strewn sidewalks and grabbed full-fledged rhymes radiating off the faces of people I passed. their mouths were mostly thin lines pulled tight. their eyes were mostly downcast.

there was a cop in his patrol car staring at his flipped open celly with a blue-screened face.

there was a well-dressed woman sitting bolt upright at the end of a bar, looking out the open door, and staring forlornly into space.

the words come fast and furious—leaping like salmon pushing upstream

I carried home my catch in my little black book

Sometimes it takes me so fucking long to write anything cuz I have to move the words around, add and subtract, think and rethink.

Other times the right combination comes to me straight away, laid out as natural as flat stones on the bottom of a creek.

Either way, those that make the cut get sent to the grammar cuisinart in my brain for extra processing

Where the illest iron presses them till they’re extra tight

Toastin the edges of nouns and meltin the cheese out of verbs…

Makin dainty story sandwiches that only get sloppy when you try and take a bite.

ill peripheral


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