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 seen and under-
words crawl along my outline.
I am a medium,
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
i suppose that they understand these puns.
i suppose that they are intended for someone
other than i
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-
that they have created of themselves
or for us.
i lie down to rest.
i talk nonsense, nonsense words appear for me.
i am not drugged nor drunk,
a mirror image.
i ask them,
and they stare back,
blank and silent,
condescending and confident.
one day, my dear,
you will under-
(this is what they say).