Nothing

I am building it word by word for you. It has a formal constraint. It is missing that tiny thing that allows most words. So I can't say much about my guts—or anything—which is good. What I would say most quickly I can't say at all so I won't. Much is off limits. All atrocious, lofty pronunciations of truth must go. Also, any lyrical, alluring romanticism is way out. I simply can't go out of control and drip insidious stanzas about gold sunlight glinting off of a fish pond or crimson zinnias rustling on a hill or birds flying through an indigo sky. I can't wax cynical vicious factual indignant arrogant or optimistic. So I won't discuss my mood. I won't talk about your hair. Good thing. You wouldn't want to put up with all that anyway. It might rub you a wrong way and I wouldn't want that. I can almost list what I won't put into words. But not all of it. I will just put it this way: you thwart my ability to not think. Why can't I just stop?

Cautious, rapt, wildly happy, his mind stuck in clouds,
a typist bangs away most slowly.

 

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© 1996-2006
Dominique Fitzpatrick-O'Dinn
Spineless Books