Free write is Hard.

Write what you know and know nothing else.
What I know is where these things always begin:
on the self. the cuddling of my tongue
on the ice cube out of a glass of orange juice.
The cold bite is shivering and sour
like the meeting of grass and sky.
Green and blue and now orange and blue.
The blue of ice which is never a blue except when you see it on yourself.
Cool crisp drops of concentrate
orange pulp extracted to produce a sweat
for fruit not unlike your own, cascading
and blooming flowers of perspiration on your collar and forehead.
The free write is an exercise i tell myself begins at one region and ends without one.
A destination is a border of sorts, the progressive end,
what I need, if I may, is not to have an end,
but a thought.
to have that glass of orange juice,
see the couture of the glass
slimming on my desk and the pale comparison
of a yellow sunny drink against
the thoughtful cherry wood's black scratches and rubbed-off varnish. Free write.