Words galore have poured forth from my brain to my keyboard to my computer screen, stored and then e-mailed to those of you who read the poetry I wrote. Alas, the flow went into remission because you stifled my creative thoughts. I hoped at some time to be liberated and to continue my journey down that literate road so littered with used and butchered words. Some rhymed and some didn’t, but all were terms that enlightened, enlivened, and brought joy to those of us deprived of text that inspired and showed the world’s differing lights. Sometimes bright and other times so dark we
didn’t really want to see what was there.
I continued to write whatever I saw in my psyche and vigorously squeezed out any visions it enclosed. Now that you’ve gone, I found myself a new love, one with words that mingled with mine.
Together we’ve written poems and prose using the very same words I found on that literary road. They had been butchered, misused, forsaken, and forgotten. We’ve repaired the broken ones so they rhymed and made music when spoken aloud.
Summer closed, school started, and I learned all our written words weren’t considered literary at all. No one identified with what we wrote and I was confused as to what words to use, to make our writing acceptable to those who knew language so much better than we did.
We scoured dictionaries, thesauruses, and encyclopedias for the perfect words to create the perfect
We compiled a list we thought adequate; we wrote and wrote story after story to submit to my class. My classmates agreed what we wrote wasn’t literary at all. So we withdrew from school and wrote using language from the street.
“Your googly eyes match your ugly face,” was how our novel began, and then we wrote about sex. The next chapter began, Dirk said, “I gave her a Dirty Sanchez.” That sentence aroused interest from those in the know and they wanted more, so I wrote, “Later that night when they were engaged, Dirk gave her a Donkey punch, and he experienced a double rainbow.”
My writing partner and I wanted to write about what we knew, so we had no choice but to practice every term, and she had DSL, so I was thrilled. Our writing became an encyclopedia dramatica where facts died and stereotypes lied.
My partner accused me of having an encyclopedia dick.
“You better quit being a bitchasaurus and do an encyclopedia brown,” I informed her.
“You can’t even find my G-spot. How do you expect me to continue to write if you leave me high and dry all the time? I think you’re reality challenged.”
“Your spot is harder to find than the meaning of life, but I do find you satisfactelicious even though being close to you is as fresh as a stroll on the beach.”
“I fantasized that you were a G-Spot Jesus, but I guess you’re going through your manstration right now.”
After practicing street words, we self-published and literate people were buying the puppy ASAP. We made enough in a month to pay for our college education, but we finally decided that we no longer wanted to write literary prose when we got paid for using such cool words and having so much fun.