*sigh* I had another dream last night about wish fullfilment. Well, the part about the shaved pet sheep was probably irrelevent. I was at a party and all my friends were there, as well as some I didn't know. We were singing and dancing and clapping our hands. Everyone was happy to see each other and the traces of bad blood no longer lingered behind their eyes. One friend in particular showed up and promised to never leave again. I gave him a big hug and refused to let go. I also refused to get out of bed this morning when I finally woke up.
Anyway, I just wrote this one last night. The devices of writing to a specific audience have been leading me to a new perspective on what I'm doing with this blog. As with suspention of disbelief, our teacher told us yesterday, if you write correctly, the audience will ficitonalize themselves in order to participate with your imagination. It's self-evident I suppose, but I had never heard it articulated quite that way before. I like the notion that you can transform your readers into artful characters. You provide for them the role of perceptive listener, and assume that they will understand you like a soulmate. Hmmm, what a beautiful idea.

THE AUDIENCE IS FICTION

I open my legs
to catch your eye
with rhetorical persuation.
You will feel this artless lullaby
behind that shadow of your heart
cast by glimpses
of meaningless
ethos
logos
pathos
that leep around this whirling sphere
like frogs raining from a parched sky.

I throw my severed locks of hair
on to your lap
so you will know I'm deadly serious
when I say that I'm more
Samson
than Delilah.

Pay no attention
to the girl behind the gausian curtain,
this partition for proposed perfection.

The marvels of this monologue
are meaningless...
says the girl who fills your head
with riddles.

And by the way...
Would you believe me
if I told you I'm a liar...

Listen up:
pay me no attention.
I SAID LISTEN UP:
pay me no attention.















Hmmmm. I was afraid so.


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