I have not written too much because I doubt. Have doubted every word I fix onto the page, this page, any page–I wish I had a page to run in and notify me that all was well or disastrous, I digress–feel that my context, my syntax any X word, my existence or exist-tense, which is a hard place to be sentient in, has become defined as doubtful, demur, skeptic.

Fear looms large, and fabricates, twine after twine of an endless heavy thread rug over my head, chest, thighs, toes bent to point, and curled, facing dirt I lay my body low. Hard to breathe, unspeakable–to say I am a writer has been bundled in the roll of the rug and hard to hear. Whisper louder, is my direction. When at a fine reading, a writer, a poet, an anybody, is easy to see over there, and there, you and you, again. Those words, writer and poet are small but well packed, ultra-stacked choices of self for many other people who openly chortle, discuss, examine, and analyze, then nod–mouths alight, streaks of teeth, slip of tongue, height of crowns on high–to all on each side of the room. I watch my comments and push, I push into the wall soft and silent to not be seen, so hush little…Decay, I do, as I wait. Wait, for what?

I have written, yes, will reveal, yes, full of worry, maybe. Wait for peep, a hand, a word, create a page, mine, to wait and see what streaks toward me, and then: find faces, feel movements, start within the state where stories rest; that is my given assignment. Taking my new role in this play I write to unroll the weave of the well loomed doubt dressing, thread by thread, then I spin a stage to be, to stand, to speak, to write. Here, it is my stage. Curtain–up.