Scavenger 
Writing

I feel very far behind my voice.

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I have heard people describe writing as sculpting.
As a building up or a taking away.
I think... my writing is a  sculpture made up of hundreds of tiny sculptures.
Small unsteady and unstable and unreliable sculptures.
A word sculpture.
A sentence sculpture.
A meaning statue.
Their own forms and firings.
And then... I make a sculpture from these little sculptures.

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My thinking is often out of breath.
Or it has only shallow breaths.
Too many words start fires.
Words travel through my nervous system into too fast frequencies and start fires. 
Sometimes writing is making me sick.
I stitch small words together to make bigger piles of words. 
Then bigger. 
I share from a hoarded base up.
I write I make like a scavenger.
I write through sewn scraps and incidental superpositions.
Words and sentences form from found things.
Three minutes I recorded two and half years ago
Holds a sentence that is sewn next to a word caught before I fell asleep last week.
Writing
That is short on breath.
A patchwork quilt of short breaths.
To show how this feels
How I feel.

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A morning of smuggling makes me happy.

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The scraps are leaky.
The statues are leaky.
This telling is leaking.
My telling is leaky.
There is a sensitive sickness slack.
A leaking a seeping out of and letting go of and no longer holding on to.
To show how this feels
How I feel.

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My tongue is a spoon.
My tongue is not a knife.