November 24, 2011 § 1 Comment
Written in April 2008
I was raised on fiction.
Breathing in stories,
threads of meaning woven into fantasy–
sixteen books from the library at once
one week, two weeks, done
back for another dose
my hunger insatiable.
When the pages fluttered down
devoured in a rush, leaving the cupboard
not bare, but damn close
I farmed my dreams for crops of my own devising,
planted with the seeds of my consumption–
I grew fat on words.
Now, though, I’ve lost the time
for such rich fare, gotten more
fiber in my diet:
flashes of research.
Meaty stuff, but poorly flavored, with
only rare sprinklings of spice–
I’m lucky for a novel a month, now.
What goes in comes out…
my pen manufactures articles and essays
long lines of technicalities.
I’ve poor soil now for stories
yet my tongue itches for the sweetness and salt