“Oh, you would’ve liked a better ending!” she exclaims. “That’s too bad. Next time, show up to the right story.” She opens her heart and says, “Hmm, let’s see what is given to me today to write about.” She is hoping for a new page.
I want to be a self-starter, she thinks, I want to finish with sparks. And then she is little girl, catching fireflies in the summer. Each glow, a story; each glow, an ordinary sun.
She paces on the line; squeezes between two words and then line-jumps. She is glad to see the margin, and leans there for a minute. It bends, bridging into another margin. Even the heart has architecture, she thinks.
This is her great love: this figuring; this terror-slaying; this air raid of wonder.
I want to be involved with a stanza, she thinks. She wants something to call her own. A page turns. “I love you,” it says, “I love you.” “I love you.”
© Umansky 2014
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The heart cannot speak. The stomach cannot see. The kidney cannot hear. The liver cannot taste. The eyes cannot feel. They lack.
In this little war, the speed of the eye is null and akin to nothing. No one knows this.
Still, it theorizes,
Together, we do not move or forage or forest. Reader, what do you know of muteness? Of the world so strange and of the haunt of numbers?
to know what you carry
(if it is a key, give it.)
It feels like a battle. A hidden one. A hidden, little, one. Subtle-like, where my feet do not leave prints. The air does not capture my breath. My hair does not hit the floor, it flies up to a tree where it harvests a nest for someone/thing else. Nothing shoots. Nothing loads. No thing screams, but I know something inside wants.
I don’t know what is beneath the exterior, or the virtual. I am losing. Alignment is losing. Thought is losing. Feeling is latching to some thing some where.
What happened to the story?
What happened to the tale?
Say that someone, somewhere knows.
© Umansky 2012
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