Not from the tip
of the tongue,
not some data bank
awaiting a key stroke to expunge:
but from nowhere to nowhere – –
formed from stale contours of air
we spit these liquid sounds,
twisting our tight mouths around
with these masking smiles, or frowns,
‘til some spark of sense is found
like a penny on the ground,
“My word! It’s almost like new
at least between me and you.”
So, they come from somewhere else
molding both the world and self:
old tomes on the shelf.
(from “pimogenitive folly, August 2001,April 2003)
subtext 