I want to throw myself down a well
rag doll child's wish
Swallowed up by the
Expired medicine bottles
Slowly swimming koi fish
The treachery of poetry
I want to edge my foot closer
And feel no
And have my stomach
In my throat
And a rushing
On your body
Ive been rolling this around in my mind for weeks now and it feels strange to see it in writing
You've kept the wolf at bay
For so long but now
To swallow me whole
All the rules of the universe, its light, heat, gravity, electromagnetism, its math, its history, its civilizations and people; all that was, is, and will ever be; exist within the pages of a book.
The book sits on a shelf next to other books. Some of the books on the shelf look like our book, except maybe one letter is different. Others tell stories, or are written in Chinese and Greek. Most of the books are complete chaos, letters mashed together by insane typewriters that spout nothing but gibberish at best and at worst are just a jumble of letters. Pages and pages are blank or contain only one character. Notes of music and vibration spring forth from others.
Rows of shelves go on and on into the distance, in a building with floor after floor of library space. Elevators and Stairs take you to new floors, some of them are underwater or on fire or upside down. Everything ever written or yet to be written or imagined or unimagined is contained within.
This is the Multiverse.
I enjoy words
Little words that fit unto tiny cubbeyhole spaces, a word like Key, something you could fit into a pocket, makes other words rhyme and think about secrets and doors. A wooden frame, gateway to another room or someplace else, it opens and closes and clicks and turns and clinks and all from that tiny three letter word.
Large words that stretch and yawn and roll around in your brain marble like trying to fathom and plumb their bottoms. A word like Miasma. Miasma Miasma. What does that make you think of. Like a big stinky cloud, it creeps along the ground because it's heavier than air, something soup like, but I've never heard that word used to describe a soup. Or really used for much of anything at all. It's not a word people say or write to each other. Miasma. That's sad. It's a beautiful word. An interesting word.
"Normal" words, everyday words like buttons. Makes me think about a button on your coat. Maybe it's blue or one of its shades like cobalt navy or azure. And it's popped off and rolled away under a couch or in a crack somewhere. And we all agreed that that Buh sound was what those round objects made of all sorts of materials that hold your shirt closed, that sound is what that thing is going to start with... buh tuns... or **** tons... how strange. That we all agreed that.