Talking is an accident.
I cut myself a lot.
Seem to bump into speech,
all the time!
Luckily, people don't perceive me
as accident-prone.
I, just sometimes, am a bundle of energy
and there I go again.
It spills into thoughts.
You know how that goes,
a little inner conversation and boom,
you hear your mouth go off.
It's like an accident.
What can I say?
And then, by some strange fate,
I'm responsible.
As if by what I said, it broke.
You said this.
Then you said this, and so on,
as if speech were cast in stone!
Sure, I said things,
but they were part of the moment, then,
part of a collage of living, then.
I often think of speech
as a momentary response
to the unevenness of life,
like the casual use of arms
for body balance.
So here I am,
on a printed page.
And, I can't explain these blood stains . . .
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