IF LANGUAGE IS HOLY In comma-charged conversations, here in the wildly tissue-thin slice of history opened by the shutting door, I sensed no periods while Martian-like literati raised antennae for semicolons, ellipses, conducting apostrophes to Being as my heart beat its way out of syntax, crackling like a blue heron’s wings as addicts stared stonily creekside in the alley of souls. I have spent all my white space solitude entirely to avoid prim punctuation in the nothingness of stray voices echoing in the canyons downtown. Periods are scars on the face of the humanized world. I choose to breathe like a frightened fox, each breath a sentence, a moment, a dream beyond our addictions to words. I race through these books to evade the hunting dogs. Period.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 00:03:00 +0000
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