The contents of my thermal mug this morning are screaming for poetic description that does justice to the myriad nuances of aging citrus. Screaming. I kid you not.
So here's the deal. I'll write the first line of this progressive-poem-to-be, and you can comment with your own line(s). I retain rights of censorship and the prerogative to tweak the final product. You retain zilch. Capische?
Here goes.
[1] When the orange juice is old, kind of sour and stale
Posted by joydriven at April 6, 2004 11:29 AM | TrackBack[2] I hate its metallic taste, like cheap ginger ale
Posted by: apelles at April 6, 2004 01:07 PM[3] like I hate you, in my worst moments, when I'm cheap and unforgiven
Posted by: jeep at April 6, 2004 02:00 PM[4] a dirty disobedient, offering flowers
Posted by: kammer at April 6, 2004 04:41 PM[5] it sits on the shelf like a prisoner in jail
[6] dangling its feet over the shelf of a bed
[7] sagging its despised and dejected head
[8] although some would drink it, it's not for me
[9] the trash can is its destiny
[10] now i know who you are
[11] the one behind the coffer bar
[12] barista pour me something new
[13] replace my bitter, sickening brew
my tongue: parallel to magnetic forces opposing the bitter-sweet
although, sweet is still in Florida, all they packaged for me was bitter
for all i care, i may just go there, under the tree and wait for my bitter sweet to fall in my lap. But first, I'll need a map and something to wash this out.
and wash me too, wash me until I am clean and I hear joy and gladness, until I am a poem a day
until I am a master of turning, of following
that's it--a sister of following, a sister of driving, of flying through the travelling mercies, a finder of Florida
Posted by: jeep at April 9, 2004 10:26 AM