I e-v-o-l to free write. I love to free write like a monk wears a robe. I love to free write like a frog hops, toad to toad. I love to free write; it is my wire to a higher desire walking left heal to right big toe, carefully calculating each heal-word, toe-word, heal-touch each letter with finesse and Free writing is a dream, a horizon so bright and colorful no dusk to cut it off or tell it when to go to bed, brush its teeth, pull a blanket over and tuck it in. Don’t get me wrong I loved to be tucked in but free writing is the college days of literary style – buck wild streaking across the page without thought for the next word ro even the next letter to come. Living in the moment for the moments sake as a free birds eye view of humanity, profanity, insanity, calamity, whatever it is that one wants to write about. Free.
I’m told nothing in this life is free. I disagree. You see, I believe whatever you be – rather wee or thee or he or she – none matters when we pen words like scree on a de/tour from our restrictions literature forces down our throats on chaos versus organization to please the masses into general thematic plans set in place by people who need who thrive who abide in contradiction. For those who call yours “wrong,” “erroneous,” “incorrect,” or “poor” must never have had a luscious forbidden forkful of Triple layer Chocolate Mousse Cheesecake before dinner. They belong to a cult who never smeared a digit along the side of a brownie bowl to gather as much raw, rich gooey goodness left behind by the rest of the world. Feared or forgotten. A fullness that rolls out over the tongue – like words – that finished products cannot articulate. Raise up your tasty language to announce to the world they are about to receive a face full of recalcitrant chocolate verbage, full-faced and ashamed but ever so delicious they will (secretly) want it again and again.
Free writing from the cage of the 113-page political agendas, Free writing from the stage of , Free writing from the rage of , Free writing from the wage of , Free writing from the page “return to sender – to be lived concurrently as the enactment of your own imagination.
I am
Free from limitation. Free from punctuation, capitalization, discrimination, socialization, Halted only by my own imagination. If I wanna use a semicolon, fuck it; I’m gonna do it. Who knows how to use those anyway. I put ‘em all throughout this poem; what bitch. If I wanna capitaliZe the ‘z’ midword, even though the Microsoft man tries to imprison my thoughts with corrections and alterations, I drag my middle finger across the scroll pad to declare “This is writing is FREE!! Change back to … whatever. I’ll spell it how I want.”
Red lines, green lines
Free righting. I evol to free right. It screams of creation. Like God, its writing on a dark palate the newness, the freshness, a light on nothingness. White paint on a black wall. Subversive beyond repair. Under the skin, under your shirt. I long to create words on a page like keys on a piano; slamming and sliding, slinking across to pronounce, catharsis of the soul, pouncing on the strings and breaking fingers too the tune of the Holy Spirit. Klsdfklasdasdkl;saklasl;jkkljaklj;asdfskldsdkla; fklsd sakl;djslkjasl;kkl;sdjsal;kdjdjklas;sdfhjklasjfdajkhgjfsdfghjks;aifludktytrxcyugihojdjhfaushfiusdkl;fgjhsdsdkljdsjklsdl;kksdjeojeiojsl;dkn svnvklsdieioijols;dlsnmvvdkhjsiohslkkxncvjkldijoewop;l’zlnvjkndlv;klsl;ksdlksioheknjvkl;xkl;jdfkhsdhjknvklxkldjsdkf;heiohgklnxzl;alk;asoibdn lksljkjosi;joeijknddknlsdvklnsdvklndfjkdsfiodfjknfnsdfpjojsdklsdfsdaoihsadewknjdfbhbuihdfjkerjvdfjklsddklnsdfoisdfkl;ndfgdf;il
