I was going to write something, but stopped. The other night I wrote something and took it down again. But that wasn’t enough: I took down others, divying up and ultimately tearing down great mastadons of self expression.
I survey the ash and rubble with satisfaction.
There are other works on here that have been condemned. They’ll soon go under the wrecking ball.
It’s interesting to think
later, I could try and reference myself
and be unable.
Isn’t that beautiful? We live in an era of excess words. If someone should happen to do the improbable and bite their tongue, they quickly go and talk about it elsewhere, the act punctuated with a hushed and underlying horror, like some trauma has been visited on the once bold and articulate soul.
“When he said that, I just shut my mouth. I turned around and walked away. I didn’t say a word… not a word.”
Well you have now, you said twenty. And then reiterated.
Imean_they_ reiterated. You’re blameless here, for this miniscule meanwhile, before the process gets turned around and churned out again. You are the generous party, taking it in.
. . . . .
Bring the wrecking ball, sign the papers.
I have exposed myself, and,
I need a tan.