Keeping your own narrative as a context for survival.

How do you hold

such a voice

to speak,

with whatever script,

for the you to grasp

beyond your reach;

reflecting within the various

stages of immensity.

Trying to resolve

substance

upon the shifting

particulars of so much

that dwarfs the point

from which you reference,

and deconstructs

into ever smaller

meanings, massing

machinations falling

into everything.

Talking back

to keep defining

moments staged appropriately

so you can

characterize a sense

of who remains

to do the talking.

Where do you start

after a stopping, and

where do you stop

after a starting?

You?

Or the company

of fellow facters

that keep the play

of words

toying with each other.

Fiddling around

with such instruments

of pain and joy,

conjugation and

dismemberment.

And for guidance

you dream

of the perfect carrier

wave to ride

through the curves

of spirit

to see that faith

is the father

and the mother

of this process.

And you are the son

of a twitch or

the daughter

of a dis-dress,

impossibly conceived,

for you've always been

a thought of a voice and

the voice of a thought;

the handle making

the handler.

There is only to keep

on with the talking,

to walk the talk,

and make the taking;

along with the listening,

to follow the feeling

for the right tone

to stay in tune

with all that we make

and break and

fall apart from

to be together.

This embrace

is elementary and

absolutely necessary.