Writing Exercise #1

(A Call to Punctuation)

Plotter is a field smack the central of her head. From across the way of the low riding waters, our energies lie to themselves, to the kelp, the minnows, the dead men lost at sea. Penetration in order to feel, breathing in the muddy air-waters, fire seeping from your eyes, as you attempt to swim across, to the harbour lights and self knowledge finding itself in dreams on the other side.

Dive in, don't let the whispers of fat bruised souls who have fallen back frighten you from the doing of your one will. Waterways eventually push you to sink just when you think you've cleared the halfway mile towards the shore. End shore-start more reasons to forget why you started seeing pictures at the age of five. Numbers dance in their own lifelike cast from cotillion to orgy every time. Your arms stride limp, as kale dying from heaven in the midst of a broadcast. Too terrible when the ocean catches your tears, so you can't see which way they ran to this time. If you think you're swimming through, just turn around and spot the salts trailing, its own phalanx commanded, growing up into a twirling sphinx, ready to crush any who follow you to the promised dry land deep within the coming, golden shore.

Get there, find a plan, make a man and bury yourself - the sand will do the same as the ocean. The tears will dissolve away, the great ancient machine ceases to be. Each bought formulated in number, fear...and straying arms will sink when the thing you move through doesn't recognize you. Take notice of your fools and the way they find their circumstance. Hair in eyes growing form and spinning your footsteps like an oversexed top gone wild. More than sized in your intentions, but naked in your surest experiments, slowly building stars in their wake. Disease in its best place stands as a reform. A substantiation of what memory brought it all on.

So look back (again) the tides astray in song after you. You know what they're calling for, the active dreaded parts of you, draining down the causeway until you sit up in the sand, hands gripped bloody with your better nature, looking horizon wise to the next local race.