backmask

When did we ever, haven’t we always go the bones of the elocution, from the blocking to the soliloquy. From café to carousel, from menu to maggot, the language may not call the shots but it sure plans the trip. Whether the pounding of your heart or the heavy in your breath, the words know what they’re doing. They take you aside and set you to churning. They seethe and riot in the silence of your skull. They bolt unbidden from your lips. The words aren’t worried if you get their meaning. The words are content with their residence in your flesh.

So I say it because it sounds like something people say, I say it because it looks pretty in this light. So goes the glossary, a pinch of cognition and a lot of relic etiquette. Complicit to the complexity, we tend the engines and wield the symbols, turning the wheels of reckoning and ritual. Dancing in circles, seeding storms. The secrets sitting inside their pillow forts while the magic happens in plain sight.

I venture the guess, make the leap. I cross the chasm, keep the farther coming. These high harmonies and ascendant caresses. These hand holds and graspings of the flesh. Gone from ink in the margins to robots blemish in the text. The words flutter free from tooth and tongue, peace spoken and sooth said. The mirror over full of such lush and abundant light. I write the letters I would send you directly upon your proofs. Nothing between us that the words won’t  wash away.