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ex(herc)ise in praxis

By Edwin Torres

the exercise of awareness starts with these fingers hovering over the laptop, pinky floatong helplessly on eoither hand…stopping there for a second to correct the mistake of a speeding digit…why does the speed matter so much…effort to capture the exact moment of word falling from tip…look up out window of moving train…city approaches, coming into main hub from upstate…my last workshop class for this cycle…quality offoces work lofts, sign in harlem…red brick acne on facade…engineer announces the stop…how in the moment does it all become and interseting to the rader to be there as the moment of creation spills out…not very, I think, as I look over these thoughts…but awareness for the mundane is as valid as revelation…next and final stop he says…my neck crunched from looking down contiunually…this mode of capturing every fiber instills speed into the typing process…does that make it better…what does better measn…mean I mean, leaving in missp[ells for sake of purity…however in purity where does meaning quell intellect…trees approach on eiother side…crunched up pinklies on either hand remain pigeon…not cute to hamper the creative by sarcastic momentary d…oh here we go underhground…tunnel under city from harlem to grand central…this will end soon with no where doscovered…no moment of grand interpolation…and is that the idea…to be normal…hell no, i want to be taken somewhere by languag…and maybe furious tyopingh on a laptop is a moment of…just caight myslef looking at the clock on my screen…guaging schedule of arroval with where my legs will carry me next…downtown, I have to pick up a necklace being repaired, over 3 months ago…then buy a replacement water stub for water bottle…then a slight hair trim since its’ the only time im in the city and god knows there are no hair people i would trucyt my head to upstate…then perhaps a quick jaunt to say happy birthday to a poet’s celebration…on my way to the workshop…then a final something befoire heading back to grand central…there…i captured my itinerary woithout a moment’s elaboration…let’s see what happens when I can read this back and embellish…tonight…on the train…one week later…at home…the speed of my digits over a landscape of keys…an amount of word-thughts waiting for molding…keyboard below me instead of on lap…positioning affects my standing sitting i mean…the speedster flyis fastering than on a lap…allows both arms to fly, out at my sides…the laptop is a smaller world…the home a stretchy one…just stopped to see scrawld notebook next to comp…halting…just saw neck didnt lift noggin t’look at time because time is not where screen is…like on lap…how unuseful to state such…how spontaneu…morning awits…will i leave misspelss in here too…yes, for sake of editing exercise…preach the learning before the teaching goes stale…say it once and discover an outdated recording that tells you more about waiting than it dies about looking….dont look up and keep typing dont even check the gander of the speech…how speeching to make it all fly…exposing the retreat as it exposes the path…hoe genuflectoral of me to assume gender in a speech of time…how what am I saying …not a thing says the sayer when the typer is the thing capturing the brain…says the brain telling the fing to fly over the thing…how ften to have a national stage for exposition to dive into the underbelly…wait right there, I took my right hand off the keyboard to make a swoop motion…as if the motion would complete waht the word tried…the language at service to the calling…the sound directed by the body’s waiting…t find a place in the motion before the motion leaves…who says these things anymore…who reads every bit of unjouranlized wolfbites…morng is an animal that prances into dictionary speak…sun brings a clarinet…a musical dove into the countrified awk…today…at a seat…no top but a lap, for a meaning to keep…I stepped away in chestal heave, neck up for a scrap…the exercise diminished by the time it earns…search the raw for a writer’s inspiration…the life for a writer’s moment…the keyboarf or a writer’s din…echo the string off a cavalry ride…man, the ear has a handfull today…don’t it…creamaster boiler p[late essential magnify trilobite willander…iffer than a sctracthed bakeoff the criminal tiller is dental smicked…until the oven fired me i was tellering…no not drinking thgis is natiral…not a high but a hiya earhole…oh wait for the many more that assume finish…a finsh libne…a finery for the audiential plummet…I am asking too much of my audience…I am assuming too much of my audience…I am waiting too much for my audient…the audeischious trill of a baritone novice…the purge of naught the oftwhich plate…the branching of my direction to be conceptual while remaining asleep…to continue in a morsel what stings…cartoon forearm…what filamenial string stunk sumpthing…

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Posted in Uncategorized on Wednesday, April 11th, 2012 by Edwin Torres.