My Words (a reminder to myself)

I wrote this whirling whorl of an essay and first posted it just over two years ago. Tonight something made me look for it and re-read it. I'm glad I did, because I needed a good jolt in the creative spirit. I'm constantly needing to remember to write, to start, to let my words do their thing. It's good to remember the snap and sizzle when I let the words fly. If you read it, I hope you'll get a good creative jolt, too. (And tell me: What do you words do)

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My words have been buttoned up in tight tuxedos, choking on champagne, cliché, and caviar. My words are tired of these too-tight high-heels that manage to look sensible, not sexy. My words have been holding their breath, corseted and small. My words have been making small talk but missing the flirty banter at the other end of the bar. My words ache to wear a sexy red dress that shows off a fair piece of décolletage. My words want to sprawl atop a piano. Or maybe my words prefer a seedy bar and a sequined halter top, just because they've never done that sort of thing before. Beer is an acquired taste, a bitter fizz and pop on my words' tongue. My words want to whisper in the dark, play it fast and loose, run across a field of wildflowers with a bottle of whiskey and Tom Petty singing sweet-yet-dark in the soundtrack sky. My words need to laugh, need to shoot up, need to let the bottom fall out. My words have never scandalized anyone, but they are still trying. My words are a carousel in the desert heat. My words drip honey onto hot buttered toast.

My words pick locks, jump out of planes, know exactly how to touch a man to make him moan. My words know First Aid. My words will never tickle you, because tickling is cruel, not fun. My words want to ride a fast horse. My words take a long, hot bath and then an ice cold shower. My words heard a strange noise in the night and whimpered. My words learn something new every day. Yesterday it was the term crepuscular, which sounds clinical but is actually something beautiful. My words try to speak French. A Cuban woman once mistook my words for Spanish. My words never flag. My words are in love. My words shake their fists and yell at the sky. My words miss you. My words have traveled to every timezone on the planet and never had jetlag. My words always say please-and-thank-you-very-much. My words will sing you a song. My words saw you standing there.

My words know when to be quiet. My words saw a hawk and called it an eagle. My words like to make an entrance. My words know all about cause and effect. My words mimic your casual affect. My words are Whirling Dervishes who live next door to Rumi. My words have fled the sand of the desert in search of water. My words are a sure-footed mountain goat with a little white beard. My words crossed the river. My words strip naked and streak across the page. My words will run in circles and all fall down. My words will keep you company. My words will shed a tear. My words will muster up a barbaric yawp and let it loose over the rooftops of the world. My words will spin you right round baby, right round. Like a record, baby. My words are your words. From California to the New York Island. My words hide in the shadows of a campfire. My words disco in the woods. My words will carpe diem. (Yeah, my words saw "Dead Poets Society." So did you.) My words strain at the seams, finger the hem of your dress, bite the soft pad of flesh on your upper arm. My words are hungry. My words don't know when to stop. My words are willful and ignorant, like a crab in the sand. My words are heavy ripe fruit on a tree. My words know how to count to one-hundred. My words are lullabies. My words are stars. My words will listen. My words know nothing about the ways of the world.