I often insist on words. Most of us do. It's not real until it has been expressed, established. And until it is expressed, it cannot be communicated. Right?

But thought can be so free, in comparison to words. I have said goodbye to many a beautiful thought, a beautiful idea, when I was up in its realm. I knew that I would have to turn around to bring it back to words. And when I turned around, it was gone.

Sometimes, I manage to bring it back. I throw some words around it, keep it alive, and slowly bring it down towards the ground. It's delicate work, and the idea is never quite as happy down there. But at least, then, I can point to it, and others will believe me.

Because there are some people who insist the only way to get up there is to pile one thin word on top of another, thinking they can reach the sky that way...

I think of what Timothy Leary said, about us silly little humans, pounding away at our silly little alphanumeric keyboards, trying desperately to keep up with that part of ourselves that is beyond the words.

And then I think of the times when I have just looked at a friend, and we both laughed, and we both knew exactly why.

Are we rubbing sticks together when there is a lighter in our pocket?

My Words Are Fingers

My words are fingers
that brush what I have unsaid.

They are fleas
that break the skin of seeming
and grow fat on the blood of things.

They are black beetles
Scuttling into cracks I cannot find.

They are trains
Nearing the impossible darkness
While I sit still in the light of the station.

They belong to no one.

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