My name

I want to tell you everything - but the first time I wrote this, in my head, I didn't know that. I knew what I wanted to do, that wasn't the problem. The problem was I didn't know what I wanted to say, tell you, or anything else in regard to the actual goal. All I wanted to do was write.

all i knew
was that i
wanted to splash
words on a page
like so.

And I guess you could say that for some reason I had the notion you were already so enraptured with my work - without having read it, met me, or seen me anywhere before - that you would have no problem diving into it for awhile.

i figured i could
write pretty words
and craft witty enough phrases
that you would never leave
if only for pleasure's sake.

I had great intentions to do so, I wanted to write demons out, to write day and light right away. But you know what they say about those and what they pave.
That this is not the case. Nor has it ever been.
Not even with a prose-poem.

but the story continues
as if from a fog
words dance across my mind
with mist and haze
and a story one could
love to read for days--
never to be remembered,
except whispers
as if from a day-long daze.

Imagine visions of black and white scenes in slow motion.
A spit in the ocean from a windless peer - crisp to the ear, strange to the eye. I can do a little better than that. Prose tenderization: a long and winding process of not more than that which crosses the mind amongst its ever-withering, multiplicatively cloned eye. Which by this time is no doubt sore. Let this be more appealing than that, let this
be easier to ingest than that.

you would have
gotten me wrong
if you thought that was all
i want to tell you everything
and while realizing the illogic
and impotence of this
and everything else that doesn't work
about it--
i've decided to
at least tell you something

Yet conclusions are never easy, and some might do better to avoid this one than I. All the same, I think I've said my piece.

Maybe now you'll remember my name.

words: P.H. Madore; picture: Steve Wing, Florida)

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