There are more words now. Exponentially.
Words mate with themselves, proliferate
through the machine.
Words become disease,
a migratory virus.
I am ill with fever, each phrase, stanza,
line an attempt to kill the spread.
These are the final words
I will pen I say again.
These, the finale
I have spoken
and read.
It continues like plague
though I am not sage.
It is pretense to see.
Words are not a part of me.
They invade my very being.
I have become lazy.
I sleep. Words
supercede
dreaming.
I write nightmare
movies when eyes open.
Fingers tap in a weak attempt to trap
the bug and extinguish it. Is this worse?
Is this better? I will never know. It is a curse.
I am the inventor of indistinguishable peri-graphs,
letters strung together in a parade. I wade through
murk I have created. It is quicksand up to the neck.
I lay my head back. It sucks me in. I spit out garbage,
reach for beauty, hope to be pulled out by verb or image.
I grab clause.
The limb snaps.
I am back in a word trap, tapping.
I am back in a word trap, tapping.
I want to write myself out of the mire.
My entire body is enveloped.
I am the vortex, swallowed
centrifically by the force
of flush.
None of it goes down to the main line.
I am back in a word trap, tapping.
None of it goes down to the
main line.
If I could I would pull
out of disease by will,
print out word regurgitations,
burn them. Still.
Burn them.
A bonfire would be satisfying. Cleansing.
An elimination of editor or agent.
A virus can be contagious.
I wish this not on either
or one.
(2004)
bonfire
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