Writing Exercise #22

Ingredients:

1. Three truths you learned by the time you were ten-years old.

2. Three beliefs you still have, despite the truth.

3. Three things that feel like heaven.

4. Three things that feel like hell.

5. Three pieces of nature that are massive.


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I'm gonna call this your time machine poem. Because here's what is gonna happen: you are you, now. Only, you get to go back to your kindergarten class with that amazing brain and heart of yours, full of what you know, as your five-year old self. Tell them everything, Billy. Each line should sound like a recess bell. You can break it down by using numbers. Or each line can be to a specific student (make up names, I only remember Scott Schulton from my kindergarten class. Oh, and Salma Gonzalez, who was a first grader. She yanked my braids every day while we waited in line for the bus. Salma Gonzalez, you're a no-good ass-for-brains. And skanky.) Tell the truth about your teacher (even if you're making it up.) Tell the truth about the quietest kid in class. Tell the truth about bullies and first loves and sticky hand holding and panty showing. Tell them everything. Pull from your list accordingly. But make sure you tell three of your classmates that they are what you wrote down for #5. Tell them how big they really are. How strong. How powerful. How everlasting. They need to hear it. I promise.

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This exercise was inspired by the amazing Samantha Thornhill's poem, "Lice."

Writing Exercise #21

Ingredients:

1. Three "famous" physical characteristics of yours.

2. Describe the weather (past or present) inside your heart, using all five senses.

3. One place that is, for you, the epitome of "peace and quiet"


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First, place each thing from #1 in a hiding place (taped to the bottom of a jewelry box, behind a dresser drawer, beneath the mattress)

Okay. Now, narrate the condition of your house/apartment post-death. Include #2 to describe the atmosphere of the house. Scatter the #1s throughout the house. If you want, instruct the person you wish to inherit them on how to find them.

Save your most valuable #1 for #3. Who would you send for it? Or, would you not give it to anyone? Would you instead let it flourish and become something else? If so, what would it become? Have fun. This isn't morbid. No one lives forever. And this is probably as close to a living will that you are ever going to get. (Although if you want, I can give you the name of a good lawyer)

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This exercise was inspired by Jack Gilbert's poem "Gift Horses."