Mox.

Writing's straitlaced punctual formality sometimes
permits the words to arrange themselves as they please,
seated systematically by handmaids in petticoats to a timely repast
of a conveyed idea. then shifting gears
like a cherry red Ferrari slide in
the apostrophes and contractions &toomany-ands-buts-ors
(polysyndeton being currently indisposed at the moment)
plugging up and slowing down the sentence flow,
blotting things up as they please as long as it
SAYS SOMETHING, say anything,
Say what? and the dialogue speeds back and forth
like a ping-pong match to the
tune of trashy pop in the background--
"Yeah. That's right."That's what I thought.Take that!WHAT NOW,
breathlessly running down spit-stained sidewalks from flipping off
all the polysyllabic briefcased hotshots three blocks up.

(If you're wondering what that's about, I had gone back through my posts and found a really cool freewrite I did the October before last... So I tried it again.)

I'm just plugging away at some more application joy, and that was my writing release.

Pray for me.
Or shoot me, whichever comes first.
L

[Edit]

(Here we go again.)

Walk it out.
Walk it out, like my calf has cramped up in the sixth inning,
two outs in, playing second base against that girl
with the monster line drive--
churning up the dust in the diamond,
swirling around, blowing drily in a cloud fed by the breeze
that kicks the sand up into my eyes...
Strike one.
I'm standing out in the field,
standing out in the field but my leg is still stiff,
stiff like my writing style right now,
cramped into this formalized diction and 800 SAT word banks
that scream Trust Fund Baby.
I can't sound like a heiress. They already have those;
they don't need another one.
Why can't I sound like me, like the ex-second baseman,
who knows what it's like
when the dust gets kicked around in the sixth inning
and can still go on with a leg cramp and the sun in her eyes
and gets a watermelon slush with her team when the game is over.

[/Edit]