Everyday Words cheat me. OPEN LETTER words. Break, crush, both of them hurried to break. Make desperate cries words, autumn, hugs. Blend the words until they bleed, until rust, even to cry. Carry the words to silence, moisture to a dry mouth for silence. Throwing up the words from the hands to the feet to be skin. Give you the words that I have not written, and leave them bleeding on the side of the window to get to your bed. Bleed, which oxidizes to die and be born again many times, as so often say the word should or should not ... or talking nonsense (how are you), and feel a little touch and a little crazy, and keep walking. Walking and find more words to give you and to give me. Go stove for words, words, hug, pillow words. Go after the birth of new syllables and letters to bring your navel ... and drop them along the crease of your waist. Write words and nonsense more words to complete the night alone among cigarette butts and half-written sheets. There are times when words fail. Both are missing that would kill the break in pieces and assemble them again. And that does not make much sense. It would be like to make sense to watch you sleep and do not find a fucking word that describes the early morning, something to make sense as the knot in the stomach, the cord out of the shoe, the bus that arrived late, the park bench empty, the phone does not ring, the cold walls, napkins and handkerchiefs in your pocket, or almost feverish walk down the street telling Baldoz.
At times it was easier write, others say them, and others, like today, it just might drown in silence to make them be reborn. And so have the words to dry your eyes and say that we must look forward and continue to give hope, to love again and again and not look for too much meaning to the passage of time.
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