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The Writing and the Western man—
American Imperialist, a savage need
to drain the blood of ink out of the savagery
of newfound sin… Ever foreign, ever new.
How much fun this proves to be—
The acquisition of self over time

In my backwards, rubber graphite lines and
in the static of loose ink there stood a writer,
Territorial (published teeth agleam)
As writers often prove to be… His language,
A violent, feral snarl shook my tongue—
Not in fear, but resonance—a tuning fork.
Words coiled up inside my mouth…

I hate writing, as you must understand.
Stenciled filth of grime and oil,
suffix and prefix, –isms, loud philosophy—
And nonetheless, like a bell-shaped harmonic
Something will lift on rare occasion.
A sound without a fingerprint, letters in
between each fret—poetic is the anthem!