A number of words... Held silence... I mean writing... You do see what I mean? It is writing. Fooled into a silent history.
To write a poem... Words on a page under one story... Another kind of final paragraph. In the rest of me, a poem. That bad, the general mistrust, making it impossible to make. That is your name, in the particles of bereavement, the preface to context. I reading writing and pieces from poems - one might think with nails torn - science confined - something in me too... work and the world seeking release; and then sacrificed. Broken voices of ethics... to try harder to only writing being good... The opening of nothingness... walls in the mirror, mutilated breath garbled, translating the curious, by enacting despair - writing - fearful, located in the encounter, with furious incomprehension. Something new will happen. I keep rereading, a book in the retina, subjugating another kind of words... thought an escalator... emerging impairment. Terror speaks passion, which includes consumerism; garbled bliss
