(an answer to the critics) 25.12.97:

my whitish teeth clench as
i start down the stairs
towards the thought of her voice
ideas race through my heart
brain pumps adrenaline
My hands are unable to convince me
they'll do their job this time.

all day I've seen it -
that snapshot of me tangled
in fibre-optic explanations
the explosive i hold to my head / handing me
threatening violence should i miss a syllable
+ i would to but my neurosis
calls my bluff.

so i imagine i feel her slipping
away with her sanity
i stutter and sputter and attempt
to gain control of my mutinous tongue
before i have a chance to say things
i don't think or feel - or do -
and either way risk decimation.

and then it's over
i am cut off from her by the land
by plastic + wire and map space
all which refuse to help me communicate
so i mark off the Napoleonic week
knowing that God rested on the seventh
and that i must not
unless i wish to cause offense and be alone.

i confess to those i love that solitude's
.... by the wiser lovelier art
while i am inconstant
i am aware of this potential
seeminlgy immeasurable.
bear with me, friends,
the wheels will eventually stop