All of this,
what we share here,
comes from real human fingertips, bothering to touch keys
as our hearts keep pace: too slow, too fast;
panic and I-want-to-go and I-am-done; tidal inhalations as I type.
I am full of thought. Then I am emptied of language itself.
Letters lie like spilled pins. So: you love me?
This kind of love, the easy, keyboard kind?
OK: I grab you, all you offer, all you spare, with broken hands and
hold tight, tap, tap,
deliberate me, my eye-mind-finger-abstractconcept-tap, more tap,
and you and I are real for a moment
r e a l
and some of us write in turn or just write,
breathe da Vinci's oxygen, refuse Torquemada's torch, and wonder:
did Lot's wife even have a name? We pretend everything.
Or are we mere stories, wanting to be awesome, settling for just collision.
Six degrees of text corrections.
One thin, last polish away from each the other, all of us, every day.
No? We are real?
And this, this here, is our what?
collaborative memoirish serialized nonfiction novel team project?
Are we in fact one shared identity here?
a fluorescing of human meaning and feeling, in aggregate,
with values like cold honey, sweet, stuck, slow to move, right here?
Distilled. Edited. We have greater clarity online, at times.
Galoot-colliding, plain-old reality misses the mark, goes a-kilter.
Sometimes this is better. This tap-tap.
And some rusted holes cannot be pitched. Our artful words alone
reveal the dark turn in us, the failure of damp matches.
Shh: you are safe, still safe, at your desk. Slow your heart.
Are we real?
Would you endure my sleepless twisting?
No: I mean for real real, my slapping shaking hand, jerking arm,
bent jittering foot, all night? tap taptap tap talk to myself half the night
fuck allusion fuck couplets and stanzas fuck if this is any good or why today was sheer misery, my head sideways on my arm while i tried to type, my left hand holding my right hand steady enough to click each key, to meet deadlines. I want my ability back. Fuck consolation. Constant reader I am not a quitter but I am so exhausted by trying to talk, just making loud-enough words empties me by noon, just making words come out in logical order after dinner so tired of this I just want lie down lie down to lie down and not get up o if it wasn't for my wife o wife o my children my bright bell and weighed anchor and un-reefed sail children my regular returning lights on this broken coast my children I would I would I would I would just give up just lie down just one last look at the pure spring green and the sun snapping behind the red oaks and willows then gasp at searchlight Venus in the cobalt blue then go. I just want to go. I just want to go now.
Today I will say anything, pay any price, to make this stop.
No, that's not true. Flip the switch: it's a lie. I have bills to pay.
I live. I will live.
I love you all.
Thank you for bothering to be kind.
Tap, touch, send, quit, shut down.