“Who’s the best writer you know?”
Well, I am.
Sure I could’ve not started with well and I could’ve written some riff-raff that really got ya moving and swinging right from the start like warm water in a shower that just makes ya sing.
But knowing these possibilities doesn’t take away from the claim. I mean, if I wasn’t cream of the cream – that little white bit that curves – then why would I be writing this? If I think otherwise I might as well just clam myself into a book, read, read and read some more. Read everything. Anything. The baddies. The okayies. The one’s who don’t use words like okayies, and the greats too. Then when I’m tired and my eyes hurt and there’s still so much to read because there’s always so much to read, I’d convince myself that I’m not worth writing about because I’m not racing my eyes across my own words – words like these. Words like okayies too.
Sometimes, though, I don’t even read my own things. The edits show. So do the lack thereof. But that’s all part of the hoopla: I bring ya in and make a mistake like ya and you think you have the better foot in the race. Then I slam ya with something beautiful like the sun dressed her in a warm coat that I couldn’t take off no matter how much I scratched or my dad’s happy or she’s laughing and I’m laughing too and none of us know why.
Shit, even when I don’t write something so nice you think the whole language was created for this little piece on this little page during this little moment, I’m still the best. How? I’m writing this and more and more and the sweltering, incoherent crackpot together may just be the greatest damn thing written yet.
Believe it. People think that all the good words have been stolen by others but I don’t think so. All the other wonks are just in their graves. They have their books and their words and they are on my shelves, sure, but here I am, still typing, still writing, still clattering along and able to beat em if I want. It’s easy to fight a dead guy. Maybe even easier to fight a dead girl, biologically speaking. So bring it on. I’m whistling along the keyboard with boxing gloves on my hands. Look how much finesse I have in cumbersome mitts. And better yet: this is just my left, my jab.
Enough silly business. Enough circling. Here’s the knock-out. KAPOW. See that – I wrote it by slamming my head on the keys. An illegal move, there’s no question about it, but I – the best writer who knows the best because the best surrounds him – say KAPOW is the making of great stuff. You’d say the same after a few punches, uppercuts, and a bit of the close-quarter bites. That’s how you know a fighter anyways – how he or she tastes. What`s in their sweat shows what`s in their blood which shows what`s in them and their habits and what they eat and where they eat and where they live and with whom they live and what they spend their time doing and so on until you meet their grandparents who smiling and giving spoonful after spoonful of blue-berry perogies with whip cream and just a bit of maple syrup.
You’ve made it this far in the battle, so know that you taste good. These words are the same. Listen them to them on your tongue and your mind and know that they are the sound-sex of the mental and auditorial, of me and you.
Don’t worry. I’ve taken off my boxing gloves for the affair here. It’s a gentle caress from now on with hands too weak to punch keys, hands that are bruised and bleeding. None of that bravado posturing. Just short sentences, soft rhythms, and a final word: I’ve become the best writer for you.
Maybe I pounded through hell to impress you. Maybe I cut my veins so you could recognize me finally. Or maybe I did what I had to do, felt what I had to feel because you’re the best damn reader and your hands aren’t all that calloused. They look nice.