Tag: writing

Ease

February 2nd, 2026

I won’t write something pointless

No the fuck I won’t

I’ll write something commorient about commitment

And then I’ll die alone

I won’t write something bloodless

I promise myself I won’t

I’ll write about a period, if I have to

To get that point across

I won’t write something sinister

With its moral greys and blues

I won’t write something poignant

About what I’ve heard from headline news

I won’t write anything that rhymes

For much longer than a few lines

And I won’t take classes

To teach me how to write

I won’t copy all my heroes

I won’t plagiarize their faults

I won’t beguile you with my clever diction

Playful syntax, charming tone

Quick turn of wit or unborn phrasing

I simply tell you: I won’t.

Instead I’ll lay in bed and rot

And go to work more days than not

I’ll waste my money

And all my time

I’ll be alone a lot.

I’ll notice the contractions in my poems

But I won’t do much about ‘em.

I’ll punctuate myself with fallacies,

Cliches, and French words I don’t know.

I won’t decide well where to put many periods

And I won’t watch the way the blood leaves

I’ll just barely notice it as it’s going

I’ll be just one more word
If you’re reading this…

August 24th, 2025

And you would like to hear a story, ay?

A turn-o-tale for the tactless fancies

Of the fisherman’s glitter scales, be gay

and do crimes –

The types of stories that I’d bear

If you with only half a heart to care

And half a mind to listen, for the lost

And weary travelers of life’s ambitious way

Take a cold one for the road and stay home, love,

To Read Today

~ a paperless series of short stories, by lorraine the wrighter, beginning for you here, Monday.
Pubthoughts

October 5th, 2024

I’m an old speckled hen, two Irish mules, and a whole pint deep in oktober’s brassy music and I’m feeling not weepy like pathos, like writing in two notebooks and guessing at love languages. In other words, I’m drunk. Pretending to be a writer, that’s what I am. Reading about physics like I have any exposure. Rotating in a barstool like I won’t have to expel myself at some point. Throbbing. I’m alive, alive, a-looking at my reflection, I need to feed my dogs but I’m drunk. The fog clears, o am I drunk or stuck here, I’ll come back after I feed them, just let me sober up and I’ll be back with my bumper stickers and tattoos, you are a faceful of heartbeats and I make the pain go away only by looking at you. I yelled your name drunk from my floor like I haven’t done myself in for the addictions of the mind, you’re on mine, wander in, I swear you’ll look dashing, you’ll be mine, we’ll dance, hold hands, look into each other’s faces. I trust you, I do, I can’t tell why except that I trust you. I woke up faster I’d died and gave you a flower for the pain you feel without any pleasure, we have all in equal measure, it’s the tuning and the rhythm that make it all. The straw misses my face and I have to find a stall in this stream or I’m bound to burst. I’ll go home when I’m ready, come back for the first of all pleasures, the human in us. Mind over matter is an element of trust.
Hey Lag

August 23rd, 2024

Dreamer, five off the crystal river,

Dance, and you’re a diamond sky

Hasten for the boat, we move as one

Cough, lean beam, square shoulders

Nerve tension, rest in the unison of

The universe, fried food or kitchens,

Sliver of away, the island is off and

Here comes the catchup, I’ve got

Something to say. End of statement.

Period. Please, pass the Buck and

The skunk. Bear, crows eye hearing,

Dead on a doormat, format makes

No difference to keeper, nothing

Can touch me here. It’s a traffic jam

Because I am flowing, river of life,

Deftly showing. Bling of bride blue

Haze, Finger patterns sought where the

sauce might get you in it. I feel love and a million other things when I dance outside. Seen, sometimes, mostly good.

See me more, I’m listening and probably looking at the ground.

The ground is full of rocks and I am made of soup. What are you?

Leave it there. See yah later.
I lost a sentence

September 24th, 2023

Writers sometimes think up sentences that say beautifully what is intended, and they rush to their device to capture it in the light; they are crushed if they miss the portal.

That’s sort of what it is, inspiration.

Precision coming from practiced skill does not always make the best sentence, like this one. I know it was wrong, I did it any way to make a poent. This is poeitry.

Think of anything as poetry, think of everything as one.

I surprise myself with directions my fingers take, the shapes they make are sad cowgirl blues, worship of autumn, clouds taking shapes behind you, ladyfingers jobs, those delicate touch shapes that move only just enough to be a little bit happier.

But I’m still mad I lost that sentence.
Subjective Visibility

April 11th, 2023

I’m on a mission.

I want to read a shitload of books before I die.

I’m going to leave the quantitative interpretation of ‘shitload’ up to future me. If they’re really lucky, maybe the walls of their house will be constructed from the stacks of books they’ve acquired over their (I hope, very long and exquisitely fruitful) journey on this pale blue dot.

At this moment, 26-year-old me is new to being late-twenties and feeling a little woozy about it. I’m reading ‘Galapagos’ by Kurt Vonnegut on the recommendation of a now-former roommate.

I’m also back to basement-dwelling. This time, at least, I don’t have an egomaniacal 200-pound tumor following me around and chasing me out of any other meaningful human interactions. The ghost of my first cat lives here with me. The remorse and the grief perfume the walls. She rests inky on my shoulder.

I’m feeling a little woozy about being a 26-year-old basement-dwelling, tumor-less, cat ghost whisperer. I’m reading ‘Galapagos’ to invest in future me’s deathbed book shitload. Vonnegut is a masterful storyteller. We know this. I aspire.

In the third chapter, Vonnegut describes English scientist Charles Darwin as having been “a mere stripling of twenty-six” when he sailed aboard the Beagle in the 1830s.

And this stripling is living in a basement, behind a wall of three lifetime’s worth of junk, writing a blog post for a website they’ve forgotten to update with the latest book of poems they’ve published. Is anyone listening? I doubt it. And maybe that’s alright.

Darwin didn’t publish his ‘Origin of Species’ until 1859, several decades and an entire family life after he embarked on his grand adventure.

No matter how old you feel, you’re younger than you think.

My fruitful life, my shitload of books, will build slowly.

If I keep up the pace, maybe my north-facing wall will be constructed of the pages I’ve written. Maybe I’ll read each one to myself over the last year of my life. Maybe I’ll pull the rug out when I’m done, just so I can feel the full weight of a shitload of books on my old body.
When It Doesn’t

January 31st, 2023

When the words don’t flow, when the letters don’t dance, I have to turn to a stream and hope for the best. I know we’re short of time because you can click to work with bands in the past (I’m not listening to class, just seeing how they answer questions until I run out of words to type or the link in my bio is a stream of consciousness type of poem). I’d rather write a poem than anything else but I need to work up the courage to be a blog or a magazine or a post so I can eat better than pasta and pay my friend for a home. I’ve written poems this way and they’re very strange, no stranger than the words that flow from my mouth when I’m not really thinking about anything, just trying to release some tension from the writer’s block and the lack of sex. When was the last time I had sex? I don’t even want to say how many months, I can come to the next one at a live performance slacking it but what’s great about a live performance is that it hosts my thoughts and keeps my fingers moving so that maybe I’ll be able to write something of quality some tomorrow or today but I’m not going to try too hard to do what people like to read because I don’t like to hear their voices very often anyway. Just one. There’s one voice I like. Stop barking at people. Just let me type. One more word, one more phrase, one more interaction on a deeper level and I’ll have something to write about. This is a great prequel to a real experience of humanity. I’m trying to continue headlining and typing an act so someone thinks my writing is worth something, but this is just a future endeavor to keep me going while I wait to be able to make a living from a stroke.