tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63071858144753111852011-07-07T20:08:38.128-05:00Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06789154050304450011noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6307185814475311185.post-16810157105093038692009-05-11T14:57:00.003-05:002010-01-06T17:14:39.023-06:00The delight of feeling a large flake yield and part from the body under the insistence of a fingernail must be experienced to be forgiven.<br /><br />- John Updike<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6307185814475311185-1681015710509303869?l=sarahelizabethcm.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06789154050304450011noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6307185814475311185.post-69613054959540805532009-04-12T19:12:00.002-05:002010-01-06T17:13:42.210-06:00If I could, I would tell<br />every person I know never<br />to start writing poetry.<br />Such a slow and painful<br />rape of the mind,<br />bending time and prose into<br />concrete lines and trite<br />overused rhymes.<br />I would tell them instead <br />to smell their own hands<br />at the place where the<br />skin dips into the<br />bone, the web where the<br />scent is wholly one's<br />own, of pennies and promise and<br />copper-plated smooth<br />sweaty sex.<br />I would tell them instead <br />to mind their own feet,<br />where the toes curl upon<br />meeting the ground, where<br />the arches ache to<br />rub against grass, where<br />the hamstrings round up<br />just under<br />the ass.<br />I would tell them to walk<br />through a cemetery door, to<br />watch the way the <br />dust meets the floor,<br />to listen to silence<br />and submarine sounds, but never<br />to write it<br />down.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6307185814475311185-6961305495954080553?l=sarahelizabethcm.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06789154050304450011noreply@blogger.com1