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The slap of keys hit the page
in Morse code rhythmic patterns
which spell out my secret thoughts-
each strike jeers memory, releases
another discovery.
Bold strokes with no ability to
erase. It’s always better with no
safety net. The words land and
later a few gems remain.
Then there’s the keyboard with
its slight, almost imperceptible
clacks and a muttered voice.
Its muffled foot prints rest lightly
from centipede legs which wear
padded shoes, so as to leave no
proof of involvement.
The tab bar thwacks to count the
end of a measure. The screen takes
my words and holds them hostage
while my dumb eyes stare.
Potential censorship tempts the
hands because one backspace
touch could erase an accident
that could have been gold.
The manual typewriter demands
deliberate choice and is no good
for the fearful thinker. Its cold
body warms when you do.
And the more my fingers sink
into your wire intestines, the more
my guts stain this once empty
page.
My hands dig into your keys as if to
paw piano bars and they find joy in how
my abuse makes you sing.
- yvon cormier
