Every time I'm Told to Write less like an American, I write more like an American

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Deep Cuts

For Jack London

The idea is a vibrant thread—or is it a scar

left by a blade of hair, the memory of an ice flash?

Vibrancy ignites his oil lamp, the end

of a match. He strikes…

There: The story of a man lost

in the wild. He can’t build a fire, but dreams

of cutting open a dog so he can crawl inside. Somewhere

he’s blowing into his mittens—a thread clings

to his scabbed lips. Smiling, he cracks

them open, whistles a dog call.

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This is the poem i handed in for Friday's workshop, one of many of my odes to the Author Jack London

In 9th grade, my Geography teacher showed me pictures of Route 66. Dylan unintentionally describes it best: "A highway of diamonds with nobody on it."

After my sister was born, My dad sold his motorcycle (didn't want to risk an accident). He keeps one of the gears--at least i think it's a gear, a tiny wheel i used to spin just to smell the metal on my fingers--in his desk drawer.

Recently, I discussed with another American how the longer we're abroad, the more we think of home; not wistfully, but in comparison. At home, there's so much space. We put up billboards just to make the sky smaller.

Here, every lawn square is fiercely staked and gardened. Even the countryside seems full.

In my Critical Theory class, i was asked if there were any American ideas that couldn't be translated, that would be impossible to understand unless you were intimate with the culture.

I said "Waffle House."