a chair with question

         Maybe what I want to say doesn’t matter. Maybe my intent is that the writing doesn’t matter, that the river has better ideas than I could ever have, that the air is thin with my hurting. My fingers, just now, have no sense of time or implication or symbolic, earnest direction. It’s a simple equation. They’re only fingers. If you want to know what I believe, ask the chair. The chair will tell you, and hold nothing back.

Of course, you may think I’ve told you everything, but in truth I’ve told you nothing. These words have no worth. If you sold them all – every letter, every scrap of punctuation – you’d have less than you started with. A ransom note of glyph and jabber. No way out of the paper bag. Well I’ve warned you. And I hope you’re listening. Are you listening? Do you have the call?