-EmilyAnne When Sam was young he would paint pictures with his words. He wrote his name in purple crayon on dingy motel walls, carved his first love into the headboard of a grimy foreign bed. He scratched pictures in the dust and would watch them come to life, as the gunshots of his brother’s duty resounded, impending, in his conciousness. He wrote stories on his skinny arms with a 10-cent ballpoint pen, until his brother made him scrub them off and wash them down the drain. He watched the ink run down in dense blue streams, like blood, down his bony wrists, and he’d cage more words behind his teeth, that reeked of innocence. Sam would fling sentences into nonexistence and clutch at metaphor with sweaty palms. He’d cry and salty, sticky words would come crawling down his cheek. He bled the Odyssey, and the Bible, into computer paper wounds, and sometimes he’d go days without consumption – only scripts. Sam wrote the sea which he had never seen and the mother whom he’d never know. He scrawled his brother’s freckles and his father’s rage, and he’d pray in fiction, in poetry, because it was the only way he could. He’d load his gun with latin and faith and the dark would shy away, because his inkblot voice would glow with an omniscient contemplation. One could trace him back to childhood by following the phrasing on the doors, and could collect the crumpled journals under floorboards and dirty sheets. Spoken bottles and shattered vocations are etched into the past, and text leaves wispy, forlorn ghosts leaving bookmarks in the light. Sam never knew he wrote the world, but he was aware he wrote himself, and underneath the skin and flesh one can find a story on his bones.
Posted on: Sun, 25 Aug 2013 20:58:45 +0000
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