I Thought of It and I Liked It, So I Wrote it Down
Sometimes we tire of writing about ourselves,
Sometimes we tire of attire.
Naked from the waist up to the neck,
because past the neck, exposure is typical,
And it is the non-naked parts of me that are the most broken,
above and below the lines where my flesh
would not be allowed on daytime television.
How I missed the (true) written word,
I have gotten too used to subtitles.
Reading a bookshelf can be as exhausting and rewarding as reading a book;
who put those stories there? I demand to know.
Someone tell me who loved those words
at what time and for what reason?
Someone tell me why any chain of events
Can end with sniffles leaving mascara stains on a pillow
in a room where the shades are drawn.
Drawn! Oh English, I love you
For words like “drawn” and “shades,” spanning multiple meanings
1, 2, 3 in a dictionary.
Someone tell me, who created these words?
Who on Earth can draw their mind into thin silver thread
and wrap it around such a thing as language?
Signifiers, the signified, oh, and I’m shutting down as I think of it.
There is too much math in this stuffed-full brain of mine.
Even the parts that are cobwebbed
are no longer bending into nameless shapes.
I’ve brought order and with it, straight lines,
but (thank God!) I can still cry.
And I had more to say,
but my mind turned over, the processor of my cerebral cortex
oscillating over and again, and I had not saved the data
quickly enough, and I am a poor computer,
so now I will readopt my humanity,
and breath in, and out, and sleep.