did you think words come from nowhere? that they are not made of the same matter in which the entire cosmic creation was made? what did you think they were... ghosts? words have matter, they have shape and weight, they vibrate differently, they have different voices, different religions. words make different colors when combusted, they stink. our poems are not without us, they are not without our breath, the grease from our skins, our baggage, our tiny stupid paradigms. they are graphic, they only exist when we can see them, when we can build them. they have to be made by us. did you think words lived without the fleshy mushrooms of our brains? did you think they live without the fibers of the forest? without oxygen? without history? our poems are made by 100% recycled materials. they are made by the dead bits of our ancestors. words are our limbs, they grow out of us, the way our legs grow cumbersome. see now, look here and see how the word is not unfamiliar, it is not strange, and it is not isolated. we cannot separate ourselves from our words. they are us.
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