SO. This week we had the pleasure of meeting some students from the University of Alabama that are participating in the Creative Writing Student Exchange with Ball State. We had a great time drinking Jamba Juice and eating peanut butter cookies and listening to their words, words, words. Their professor, Brian Oliu, read some lyric essays that left me thinking YES and I WANT THAT. Layne will talk more about what he does (8-bit video games mixed with beautiful imagery: intrigued? You should be.) in her post on Monday. I’ve dabbled in lyric essays before, but never really wrote an entire piece. I left the reading inspired, so I wrote the piece below but honestly I’m not sure what it should be “categorized” as. Maybe you can help me out, dear readers.
(P.S- Brian and company– it was so nice to meet you, and I hope you come back to Muncie soon! But maybe when the weather isn’t acting like a big B.)
Your Siren’s Running on Empty
Last night an ambulance wailed outside my window. I ran to his side, wrapped my arms around his hood, squeezed him close. I told him he was safe. I said words I couldn’t prove, words that could build a house but not a home. I clasped his rear view mirror between my fingers and led him through my front door, removing his tires, setting him on the floor. His bumper was too big for the futon.
The lady in the ambulance’s belly cried through his
The ambulance watched, wails growing louder and louder. I smacked his taillights with my bloody hand to shut him up. I smacked him so hard the plasma separated from each blood cell, staining his skin with sticky blotches, more yellow than red. You don’t know, he said. You can’t feel this, he said. You can fix things, he said. I made him go wash his windshield in the bathroom, dim his flashing lights. You’re causing a scene, I said. Close your mouth, I said. Feel better, I said.
Last night, you wailed outside my window. I ran to your side, wrapped my arms around your neck, squeezed you close. I told you that you were safe. I said words I could not prove, words that could build a house but not a home. Words that could cover, but could not fix.