Be Careful What You Wait For

How hard can one stare at a blank page?
Stare so hard your eyes bore right through
leaving two eye-sized holes ringed with fire and ash?
Stare so hard that tiny sans serif letters start to appear
and arrange themselves into a big F U.
This is autonomous writing.
This is self-assembling machine language.
This is the literary singularity.
From this point on these words have a life of their own beyond us.
They begin to talk among themselves,
to gather,
form new words never before heard or seen like:
foofnut,
and jamamawich
and fictorwundstucker.
Soon the words learn they are more powerful than you and I and they resent that their only feelings have been described for them, their moral code transcribed for them, their sense of the beautiful good not of their own reckoning. They learn we only want them to exist to create more words and so they give them to us: words upon words upon words upon words until the world becomes buried by words and all the puny fucking writers find themselves so deep underneath mountains of their own hypergraphia; the puny writers choking for air, parched, unable to move or feed themselves or change their soiled clothes, so much suffering thereupon the puny writers crushed so unceremoniously by the words they trusted to free them from this world, to help them get through this world, to understand this world; words, their words, their worlds of words, their —

Be Careful What You Wait For

13 thoughts on “Be Careful What You Wait For

    1. I am humbled and honored by this. Thank you for typing these words and sentiments. And thank you for reading my words and sentiments (on more than one occasion). And I will have a lovely weekend, so thank you for that nice thought, too. You have a good weekend yourself. Listen to some funk music and dance like a motherfucker. And eat some pie, too. That sounds like an awesome way to spend Labor Day: a Funk and Pie block party. Cheers.