Write Right

It feels lovely to write. When I finally do I feel even thirstier for it, like a sexual dry spell. I want to do it all the time. I want to handwrite everyone little notes, to put in their lunches for work, to tell them that they've done a good job, to scrawl mini-poems on doorjambs, on skin, on car doors with keys. Words make me so thirsty. They are the pictoral graffiti of the mind. They are an affront to your attention span. I like to be forced in this way and only this way, to read, to be the subject of the writing and never the object, always coyly avoiding, like a woman, what people think they have the right to do. I feel the murmurs of the streets hear the beat the hungry faces the struggle, things put in shorthand in other forms, danced
waited
with bated breath
found dead on your doorstep two years later, it being no surprise because everyone who knew them knew they were going that way
do you want
do you want what he had
did you want what I wanted
Will we only find out through pictures in the end
Did you write the right things to fulfill what I wanted to hear
Because saying it, I think
Takes the power away
Are you reduced to prose, like someone blubbering on the floor
Wondering when their next meeting of Readers Anonymous will be
As if we were all not a not-so-secret society of archaic perverts and fetishists
We were vampires, biting and sucking so hard for the last bit of it, for the printed word
Give me this NOW
Before it's too late
Before my pornographies are distilled into electrons.