On Writing (circa 2005)

I am weak
I cannot hold up my head
Nor type without my arms supported
The effort of movement
Clashes with the effort of words
Clashing again with the effort of thought

When I move
Thought comes in formless swirls
No longer the crystalline clarity
That comes with stillness
I grasp at the remaining fragments
Struggling to piece them together
And turn them into words

I cannot predict my body
As it shifts from stiff to limp
From rhythmic movement
To rigid stillness
And staccato jerks
It gives little warning
And no apology

Luminous clarity changes suddenly
To searing pain
Detail beautiful enough for tears
Passing an invisible threshold
Soundlessly shatters
Laser-sharp focus
Giving way to electric fog

I am a collector of fragments
That sit within my mind
Weeks, months, years
Before settling into their places
In the patterns of my thoughts

I write as a historian
Not a reporter or newscaster
My specialty is remembrance
Not narration

My mind can burn
With the desire to tell it as it is now
The drives of a writer and a poet
Clash with the mind of an observer

I pound my head and wordlessly yell
As if this will hasten the process
That changes experience to thought
Thought into words
Words into movement
Intricate lines that branch
On the shell of a tortoise
Marching in a straight line to the sea

But my body does burn
With the effort of this chronicle
Eyes flash on and off
And words recede
Head rocking from side to side
Legs undulate unbidden
Fingers flick rather than type
Fragments collect again
The poet flees

I struggle now
As words dissolve on all sides
To adequately display
The meaning of fluctuation

Easy would be
To call this hell
Torture, imprisonment
To evoke the overlay
Of several shifting principles
Unsynchronized with each other
With their abhorrence of change
A body here, a mind there
Each sense broken into pieces
Jagged electricity interrupting
As I burn in unceasing pain

Too easy it would be
To acquiesce
To end with this description
As the inevitable flood
Of my internal rhythms
Drowns me out
As I try to shout over the waves
That shift through my mind

That I see waves and the poet
The rhythm and the cry
The weakness and the beauty
The struggle and the change
The fluctuating movement
The lines on the shell
Unpredictability and pain

I see them
They drown me out
They propel me
I shout over them
That I can’t see the tortoise
Without all of this
And as such
This must all be my home

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