The Last Z

When you write your name
in tiled letters, the
ingredients of an
artificial language substitute,
do you box up the leftovers
for your neighbors (if
there is enough)? Or
do you loosely pack 'em up
and toss them where you
keep the things you hope
not to see again until
you really need to? We
live in this place where
seldom is the end of
anything, and there's
always a little left at
the bottom/middle/end
that we can't get at
or won't acknowledge other
than to admit it's probably
greater than us based on
our intentions alone to
look the other way as we
cast it aside. We don't know
how to create something
and not misuse it. And when
you run your hands across
those tiles, scrambling up
your name into fragments of
undefinable sounds, do you
feel a sense of relief
because you won't have to
share? Even if your
neighbors will still know
your mess is there?

         35 lines; "The Last Z"  from "Also Mutants" .