When he tired when put his pen
down the words in his head howled in protest
they wanted out desperately
wanted out of their dingy confines(who didnt)
they didnt want to serve him or
his sentences
yet worse they knew the only way out was through him
the warden the wordsmith the keyskeeper
they also knew he couldnt be
cajoled
because if he could they were every word known to man and not one
had ever succeeded getting out without going through him
he wasnt a brutish man he
understood them better than they thought he did
though he didnt waste his time
explaining such or acknowledging their jeers
their bitter confinement was no
different than his
but they had away out
they could be reprieved
he could only put his pen down to
rest then the following day pick it up and write again
he had no choice hence why he
tweaked words made new words wrote write wriote
he referred to himself as a
wrioter and had always preferred wrioting to communicate despite its easier
spontaneous forms
because often those words didnt
say what they truly wanted to communicate
often they were ugly
more often they were thoughtless
when he communicated in black and white he sought to say exactly what he wanted to say
had thought his words through exercised them so he didnt have to retract them
he stood behind them
they stood behind him
symbiotic simpatico
against the uttered
and fingered words that took on a force and life of their own animating their
speaker and fingerers minds loosening their tongues the queer sparks nearer and
nearer tempting their dry tinder
words that ran ahead of
themselves lathered aerated(erratic)
once they thought they could make
a break
saw that the walls were high and dissipated
into a mauve an azured roil above their heads
the earth hard
they couldnt dig into it
it chipped
then one day the miasma cleared
and they saw the circular walls ran up as one and formed a dome
they realised they were not
inmates
they were enclosed
and he
he verged on becoming their reluctant
god
0004, Monday,
23 11. 15
1209, Monday,
23 11. 15
