[prose poem]A little genesis, please. It’s the ink, Lord. It feels like you forgot to make the ink make the words. Let it not be my brain gone desiccated as a desert hermit’s throat. Let inspiration flow like incarnation, like respiration, like substantiation. If ink were blood and blood were wine and wine were bloodline, we’d have wine and proses, for which I’d settle, Lord of Schrodinger’s cat and quantum physics, dustbunnies and chocolate. You be the needle, I’ll be the dread. Please, any thread. I’ll be the field, you’ll be the scream in the first line. Send streams, reams, trickles. You be mother, I’ll be styled any school you want to scold me into. What of me is worth your attention? You be father, I’ll be puns. You be vinegar, I’ll be toil. I’ll be cat (herd-able), you’ll be, as usual, bog. I’m willing to slog. You be stars (infinite and sentient), I’ll be type—words in any holy font you want, your wont, sentences in stripes. And with these stripes, I will be healed. I have faith in paper and screen, faith in lines and breaks. May the words of my keyboard and the instruments of my heart be. You be the tongues, I’ll be the stutter. Peace=one poem. Lord=one poem more.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.
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