I imagine you, all of you

with a cheap silver nibbed pen, eraser-tipped pencil

pressing so hard with unworked fingers

into waste of paper or harder still into keys

 

there is no doubt there will be

a statue or the lame picture of a Buddha

at the side of a plant, let’s say a Yukka or something

that will wilt in the light you pretend is within, and

those half-read self help books that lean on a shelf

to the left.

 

You’ll probably see another's auras

discuss chakras or the universe

and talk repeatedly about peace and love

or its light.

 

There may even be a Crucifix

complete with the corpus hanging

somewhere, anywhere within that which you call a home,

and an oven, powered by electric

and your only key, cut

with the blunt knife of your words

 

with a book

lay beneath a bedside tablelamp,

the holy bruise under the skin of its glow,

a t.v throwing another silent voice

into that gap that exists within the torture

of a mind

as you write, as you write

as you write...