I was whistling in a stiff wind, wanting

you to hear me and respond appropriately.

Nothing came of it; my words split and devolved

until all that was left was a broken sequence

of words – no, less that words as that suggests

structure. Words; shall we call them such even

though they were faggots of brush burning towards

the fire. Fire seems sometimes to act like a cave;

it makes echoes that hang around; sticking itself

into cracks of the stone, speaking within to

those who know nothing of its course. The shrill

sound scraped and scratched every surface. It’s

possible to pull a language from stone, if its

surface has been scratched and scraped by

tools of a sort, that moment of imagination

can be translated and settled down. Words

are elements with their own structure scientists

can interpret and give meaning too. It takes

but one joke to threaten to rule; any structure

can be collapsed using the appropriate words.





John Gimblett
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs

This entry was posted on in homepage and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.