There’s a sickness in the air that can’t be described, can’t be touched, can’t be felt. It glides off of our tongues in that harmlessly harmful fashion. How can we speak if we don’t know? How can we know if we don’t speak? And all that comes out of our black voice box is hot air. In, oxygen. Out, dioxide.
I’m choking on the nothing in my mouth, I’m fed by military rations of forcefed propaganda, I am withered by a lifetime of silence.
I saw a flower outside my window, and I knew that it was beautiful, it was so beautiful that in fact I can not describe it, and all I know is that I want it to be black, in your perception, in your mind, in your imaginary eyes.
I saw no flower, but did you? Did my words and ideas create a sight a sound a smell out of nowhere, nothing, out of the letters on the page?
I like Sage Francis.