Words in blocks across the page(s) that fill from margin to margin like groupies in line to meet their favorite rock star. Are they useless, these words? The way many rock stars fade without the fickle attention of the devoted filling their syringes? Useless just might be in the eye of the reader, a beholder who may not even care. So, blindly, I will keep slogging through adding words, a ‘sweatshop scribe’ sewing sentence garments destined for Wal-Mart that really belong on a catwalk. All of this seems like suicide; as if I am lining my verse up on a drift fence, picking them off, one-by-one, with my self-deprecation slingshot. But I care too much for words, and my faith in them is orthodox, fanatical.
<<TO BE CONTINUED>>
© Jamy Sweet 2011-08-25