Most of my long existence
Has been dislocations.
So now nearing the end
Of my existence
And resistance to dislocations
I seek a location,
But only location I can find
Worthwhile is writing words.
When I write words I locate
Myself in a linguistic reality.
But when I write words,
I don't feel I am doing the writing.
The writing is done by things,
Mosses quivering on oaks,
By colors from insects, gold,
Blue from Oncometopia orbona.
When my writing is written,
I am in a location, otherwise
I'm in an illusion, a lie, a hell.
© 2008 - Lock