we do not create words,
we discover them.
words have their own identities,
their own minds, their own sense of purpose.
right and wrong, left and right, true north.
we build fences to contain them,
they slip through the rails.
we lock them in their rooms,
they move through walls.
they hide under beds, smoke cigarettes in bathrooms.
they eat junk food, read dirty magazines.
fornicate with other words.
we call words to the table.
but they may not answer or they may not eat.
words play with their food.
if you kill their spirit, they die.
lying flat on the page, translucent.
the dna of words cannot be mapped.
there’s only a probability of words.
words fold space. bend time. outrun light.
-from love jaywalks: poems from the novel
Waking Up at Rembrandt’s