The Mute
November 21, 2011 in The Wonder Of Words, Wordsmoker
I can't get them out. Lord knows I've tried. They're always there, paragraphs and pages swelling against my skull until I can't fit another thing inside; volumes spurt down my spinal cord and scorch my nerve endings alive. They nest in the pit of my stomach, heavy-laden and full of purpose but without direction. Emotion rattles my ribcage, thump-thumping my heart out of rhythm in a chest that's always just a bit too tight. Letters crawl up my esophagus, choking like a too-thick piece of steak until I drool vowels down my chin. Verses forge their way down my arms, always stopping short of my fingertips, sizzling like electric fence wire buried under my nail beds.
I really want to bring the word “babe” back from the brink of informal parlance extinction. Not the usage indicating one of the “young hardbodies” in a Bret Easton Ellis book but just the usage that makes it a synonym of the word “man” for the kind of guy that thinks about The Sharper Image during oral sex (either given or received). People of my age are largely done exploring the world of adult recreation – be it drugs, sex or rock n roll.
My first book 
