Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Back to type,

my fingers, ink,


creativity pours

from neurons

onto white space

in the birth of matter

from primordial idea.

Home in my small

unkempt cave

under blankets,

hunched over keys

alphabet blazed

symbols on their chests,

I type to fill time,

and empty my brain.

While writing

has great tradition,

and infinite canvass,

my boxy white corner

of the universe is happy,

caught in its own trap,

expanding slowly

with the rest of everything.

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