Time is meaningless, and so is existence, but
I am ensnared in both,

god in skin trapped in meaningless time and
meaningless existence and
craving meaning I make it myself.

don’t you see?
the craving of meaning is the beginning of meaning,
the desire for a story drives my pen
so i write stories.

I write meaning into the meaningless,

I call into the void and the voice
I hear echo across the chasm is my own, but
we are alive and it is enough.

this is bullshit.
I’m writing bullshit.
it doesn’t matter.
I’m writing.

do you feel that? do you feel the pen in your hand moving?
your ligaments and finger-bones given over to vesslehood,
given in service to the river of words, the words become flesh
and possess my skin and finger bones and
my brain is quiet,
ego has no say here, he
only watches and provides spelling advice

while the hand and the river of words commune,

i slip my fingers into her and make myself one with her,
give myself completely to the attention of her every breadth and curve,
the river and whisper of desire,
desire to be known,
desire to exist,
desire to be once again connected to all things
and

I am the point of connection,
my fingertips are the locus of alchemy.

I make magic,
I make love,

I make meaning out of
nothing,

I make the river sing.