Let me be clear,
I am not
under the impression
of greatness or even
mediocrity. It might be
said that I do
not even write but
rather absorb words
and thoughts that creep
up from the walls
surrounding me. I can hear
their echoes like hungry
ghosts, all plasma and
grumbling, those dearly departed
before dinner. I
can sit in a room
and wait
for the lights to dim,
the shades to shift.
I can draw pentagrams
in the smoke of chalk,
dematerialize into
the smoke of clay.
But I cannot say
that I have
had an original thought
in my life. I cannot speak at all.