She Writes.
She writes all night,
words like flea scat, dark spots upon the page, jumping between white silence.
Flames leaping at the shiny spines of abandoned books above her.
Ancient thought peers from ivory linen volumes, ready to culminate.
Mazda her only light across the fireplace bright with flaming newsprint.
Her eyes out of focus, cameras to the public mind and the private viscera.
A Luddite with pen sprawling ink in broad strokes upon the prone page.
Portraying an artist with thin masturbatory writing, senses aglow in the contrast.
Cold feet a reminder that life in the shell taunts you to betray the placid mind.
Live me! Live me till you won’t, it bites, it nags, live me for i am you.
Arguing with the mind at rest, live me to the fullest, your feet, your head.
She writes,
she is the finger which draws the alphabet in the sand, dry, hot and benevolent.
She is the rock carving the boulder on the trail of tears.
She is berries upon papyrus, pictorial rendition, glorification of an era.
She is cuneiform scratches upon sandstone in a place of Eden, preserved and hidden.
She records
she is the wooden quill which attest to her ancestor’s birth, the vicar who witnessed them.
The first note thinly euphoric under the desk, under the heavy book.
The first letter along with baby poems about flowers and maybe birds.
The first wail of adolescence, sequestration and molestation thickly metaphoric.
The new name on the license to cook super and make babies in the condoned sense.
The immigration application times two hundred extracted alien forms and documents.
She assumes.
The veracity of a statement as best she knows, the legal interpretation.
The death certificate, the insurance, the flag with no relevance, nowhere hence.
The signature on the first car ever sold, to her alone, for her only.
Term papers and theories, every research, every finding, understanding.
Add a new name, she is the same, universal as any woman being.
Application for permission to bear responsibilities beyond time to fulfill.
Time spent in agony away from silent words and muted keyboards.
The will ill-planned and unfinished in a drawer, somewhere, waiting.
She is the scribe,
The tool to rewrite history full of bias and unspent enmity.
The treaty to rob and roll over land and across river, unaffected.
The ink on a bogus contract, meaningless verbiage to fool the meek.
The deed, the guarantee, the thievery by any other name, ratified or nullified.
The toxic dye in print upon the t-shirt that boasts of might upon the angry chest.
The proudest accomplishment blared in the polychrome of glossy cards.
The slightest achievement engraved upon the brass of a dusty trophy.
The warning which absolves the manufacturer from his part in the making.
The little tag too small to read to save the garment from infringement copies.
The conglomerate disclaimer which dangles impunity above the law.
The law, the loop, the holes in the continuum that leap to fewer pockets.
She is the pen.
The angst of the populace smeared upon bonded paper in uniform paraphrase.
The name, the id, the icon upon memory, in memoriam of all who were, all i am.
The brand name which calls obedient souls to dissipation, to consumption of self.
The appeal, the sex appeal, courting the skin of the needy, the wealth of the greedy.
The sensuous pen which glide unctuously across virgin pulp.
She jots.
One syllable, one parable at a time, word simple, jogging through the lean years.
The list, the list of lists, glued, applied, constructed and torn by mistake or frustration.
The thank you note, personalized hypocrisy, a la carte, for the unwanted gift.
The checks ill-spent in haste, under peer pressure from unwilling friends.
The mundane chore, the address book, the calendar full of reminders to be forgotten.
The misplaced appointment, the long lost letter, the past remembered.
The letter she never wrote to the other woman of words who usurped her role.
The whole text, the context, unadulterated, in its entirety. Words on empty.
Suspended in the greater space by Damocles at play.
She engraves,
The soldier’s name and rank upon bronze in the crowded city park.
The logo rolling by on the tail of an airplane on its way to cerulean dreams.
The sacred invocation to a state of trance, in a lecture hall of reverence.
The last inscription upon a wall-ful of unwanted emotions.
Transcribed on the ribs of vehicles rolling by to other important places.
Translated, and imposed upon the unsuspecting conscience of a passerby.
Transmitted and read by an anonymous voice, words to convey, to convince.
She is message.
The spray-paint graffiti under the bridge, claiming hard earned philosophy.
The lipstick across a bathroom mirror taunting the witless victim.
The undecipherable encoded com’on knifed into the library rest-room.
She crafts.
Sculpts adverbs like a word smith in love, phrases emerge from the maelstrom,
conjured and embellished, flattering or battering. Truth to self, and to others.
For all the jumbled dreams, the never could, the could have beens collide mid-air.
Words we share in quotidian permutation, the sage and the fool, interchangeable.
She writes.
Of love well meant.