Published in the 2008 edition of Asinine Poetry
The way the metal point just glided across the surface, something
like a finger tip trailing through water. I think it was like eating
good soup--potato cheese beer soup or something, the comfort
food that warms your insides. It was strangely therapeutic in a
romantic, wasteful kind of way. Satisfying like brushing the first
streak of paint onto a wet canvas. And even though I usually ruin
my canvases, I was OK with ruining the cup, this time, because
I would make it beautiful slash awesome--it would just be
worthless for consumer use. What? You want a cup of soup to go?
Sorry. This cup has been drawn all over. Ruined by the wasteful
employee. Made better. But it was fantastic--the way the
molecules just sank under the ink, gave way to the gentle pressure
of my lines. What a friendly submission; I don't think the stuff
minded really, that miraculous equation of alteration taking place
in my grip. And the styrofoam--it was incredible, the way it just
obeyed, agreed into being pressed into something different than what
it was supposed to be, like a lump of clay. And I thought of a chest,
exhaling, collapsing, finally at rest.
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