i wish to write again,
wish to feel letters climb
from the bottom of the earth
into the bottom of my soles
through my body
into my soul.
wish to feel them
underneath my skin
wish to guide them gently
through the universe
until they reach the reader
that needed to read,
that needed to be felt
and heard
and seen and under-
stood.
i stand.
words crawl along my
outline.
I am a medium,
a path,
a means to travel from a to
b.
letters arrange themselves
and form words i do not know.
they appear in front of me
and i ask their meaning of them.
they do not answer directly.
they speak in riddles,
those sly ones,
they speak in tongues.
the readers that need to be
reading
read.
i suppose that they
understand these puns.
i suppose that they are intended
for someone
other than i
to under-
stand.
i climb out of my dream.
words appear, i ask them
their meaning.
they do not answer.
they do not change.
they do not add more of
themselves to make themselves clear.
it is as if they look back
at me,
mirror images of consonants
and vowels and poetic tricks
to make me think there is content
in them,
some meaning that lies
under-
neath
the flesh
and bones
that they have created of
themselves
for themselves,
or for us.
i lie down to rest.
i talk nonsense, nonsense
words appear for me.
i am not drugged nor drunk,
i am
staring
straight ahead:
a mirror image.
i need for words and
letters to appear.
i ask them,
and they stare back,
blank and silent,
condescending and
confident.
one day, my dear,
you will under-
stand.
(this is what they say).
