This is Why I write (I’m sorry for stealing from you, Paramore). Have you ever
had the urge to bungee jump beneath stalactites and mine a word- reflex out of the static? Have you ever eaten
ice cream so rich, with your hands, (because the cone dropped, it wouldn’t do anyway) you let out a longing so incredible, it even scared
yourself? I write because my head kept panging from rest- less obsession and then all
the fuzzy cells left me, then transferred onto the note- book once I (Write it!) drew it out.
Poetry is a lesson in allusions: for example, I startle in front of the blank page like Spongebob,
the trance a “blankety, blankety, BLANK”—sometimes, I forget how to write, I forget what it is
to feel that brain-shock, that dream -memory that never came to me until I discovered that creature
crawling up the spine of my pencil, my type-
writer, the little monk / key wanted to latch on, wanted to come out and pray,
I mean, play, but I was too busy trying to find the write line,
I wanted to prove Wallace Stevens wrong when he said clams
couldn’t play the accordion, that surrealism was just an acorn-shaped maze, no, according
to me, I write because I like to have fun, I like to find myself, my nick-
name is Clam and damn, poetry pumps the air into me the same way I compare
a squeezebox to a lemon, I yelled meta four times and the stupid web-
site came to bite me in the ass and steal my personal
information instead of getting a like, no, this is why
I don’t leave the house and write poetry instead.
Read more about Clayre here.