My Own Words
Stopping to think, and using my tongue, a silent and plural speech, writing, how thinking does not stop.
There are clouds, many-layered in many motions, colluding, in sky.
I would see them, were I to face the outside.
Inside, no difference.
Letting speech beyond. No beyond, in part.
I had written, earlier, “so not finding my own words…”
A song was playing (is playing, NOW) in which a deep-voiced singer repeats “all thoughts are prey to some beast.” He repeats the phrase enough times (so that it seems like more than enough) that I hear it: the phrase, his voice, drums and strings.
Earlier it was about trees and soil, beach and sea, which have no language. I had thought perhaps I did. “Not finding my own words,” alas.
It makes for quiet. A banner fastened over the mouth: blood-red, pitch-black.
Begun before, though, the plural.
Taken outside by the hand. Inside, outside – no difference. “Not finding my own words,” as earlier.
B called it “weariness” and “infinite conversation,” requiring interruption. Causing a silence (stubborn, sullen) and a listening (unavoidable, imposed). Plurality. “Not finding my own words,” I pilfer.
The launch – erasing – opposite of launch.
Why I like the word “thrum” (“not finding my own words”) and “inscribe.”
Bent, crooked, stooped over a desk with a lamp of single bulb, I imagine “scribe” as “scholar.” Inscription going both ways, like tying a knot requires both ends. Binding.
Such physicality to the immaterial.
As easy as lying (also snatched from a spine).
Stopping to think on how thinking never ceases.
“Not finding my own words” I turn, reverting to the silent plural speech of my mouth’s hand.
I call it “writing,” not finding my own words, even for that.
N Filbert, 2012