Random Words to a Young Writer Write up -down -- up -- experiences now while they are still fresh -- not wait till half a century's time has passed to try to recapture those fading memories as if they were etched in stone, marble carved on granite obelisks, becoming more -- each moment passed -- a fleeing piece of shrapnel from a mind exploding energetic input, kinetic output on no certain medium for all the passing world to notice not even when the fertile soil hardens stone like clay, and promises to visit you vanish like unremembered dreams in an idle mind, miscellaneous chunks of gravel chips trod under by those passing feet that crunch the memories of existence into sandy beaches of indiscernible particles, molecular anonymity no one knows nor cares to ask about.
Read what others wrote in their archival legacies, their contributions to their universe hereafter in other folios of mindless banter left for their issue to discuss at length what connotation they might have meant but didn't say to you and anyone else who chances upon their random words, chancing accidentally on lonely volumes crammed alphabetically on secluded shelves between reference behemoths and their midget sons to the left of self-help dogma and fictional doggerel, each slimfast volume screaming with distinction that IT should find its way into YOUR mind, an adopted ideology painted on fresh canvas.
Think divergently what eyes all others see but none discerns the same in color, shape, significance, or where what lives will die and go away how far how long in what direction for sure in what condition, affected by what elements, aether air or roasting flames as nothing left or sacred names, traversing from mortality to this the other place from there to here more than the speed of life through mindless barriers religious freaks call the Apocalypse others Armageddon some a passing a quickening in a gathering becoming an immortal amongst all mortal life.
Wade through the cataract of words that spill into a pulsing stream of consciousness rumbling through rough roads of rhetoric searching for the gem of meaning, germ of understanding, that lingers precipitously on the brink of mumbling something meaningless to no one listening, anyone reading, scanning lines for substance.
Explore all ways of scraping scenes from mossy stones, dancing wheat stalks rollicking reeds by muddy marshes tall oaks that stand alone short stumps in empty fields sweet elms on quiet streets dead bricks in flattened lots cuddly bunnies teddy bears goldfish in tanks silverfish, no thanks, carry-on baggage carrion roadkill damp showers, twin towers lost in rebellious rubble, peace trouble, peace, wars, wives, whores wherever you want to go today.
Be the writer, reader, subject of your thoughts and editor most of all to challenge that your every syllable is better than every other word possible to relate the picture in your mind to those who wonder what it is you really want to say.
Once words are drawn not immutably, fear not to look in retrospect that words evoke the feelings you intend.
Reread the written lines aloud for rhythmic continuity lest circles loop in random coils aimlessly around uncertain themes lost within concentric rings of verbs that ready, aim, and miss the mark with dimlit phrases in dimwit clauses mistaking nightingale for lark inverting reasons losing causes - lines sublime, ideas superb to verses formed a shapeless cloud constant changes, oxymoron leaving writers' sense behind with eyes that see insightless, blind.
Remember, readers do not know what lurks within, what bursts without nor read the signs you post throughout the stanzas' rhythmic feet which flow iambic fast or trochee slow.
Somewhere each page, a stanza, line or word like pollen germinates, plows deep a fertile field...
Edit out what nothing says fits not the theme nor order in your mind though likened to vile amputation of seemingly essential parts which seemed axiomatic at their immaculate inception - you the father mothering the fetal words to immortality or fatal damnation.