The Chatterbox of Writing

Memory is the chatterbox of writing. Audience objective:
the sodden poison. Silence all!

Hear now, here now. Channel the cosmic intersection. Speak in sibylline multitongue. Yawn forth the fleeting abyss.
The editor, the analyst, the publicist, they heed not the minute space of attention that finds the magic in these, the least of days.
Brooklyn bound in summertime, with a long empty sighing and quiet joy of stretching solitude ahead. This blessing, I, the summerman.

What is freedom? These minor constraints: breath and sustenance and shelter and ready-making for the proximate gaining ventures.
What is freedom here? This me and moi and on page clinging to the simple sounds of penstroke and memory of recognition of singularity of bright eyes open to its possibility.

Shunning not the easy disgrace of alliteration.
Shunning not the tell-tale archaicisms of too much read from too long ago. And shunning not, either, the naïve self-sufficiences of American Whitmans and Steins.

I sing a late spring morning in Brooklyn, full of a Kerouac-wackian It, because it is mine to sing and I see myself here singing it, in some older hoar, Dylanlike, singing it, with great rotundity and inflection to the twilight evening porch of my quieter years.

Singing my Treebeard whale-song this sound that pounds like the gray surf lapping
like the hammers hammering
like the still steady beat of this not yet too traveled heart.

Singing it because it is the sound that comes out when I silence the racket of censors and profiteers and spin away instead into the infinite life mines of my younger years.

Yawning forth, I sing, abyssus abyssum invocat.
Sing, sing, I speak, shameless and shunning not, Sibyl in sibylline multitongue.