Using both
hands at once; a good time-
saving skill these days, nothing
like the old motion:
random collisions
between flesh and key.
A thousand words per
minute translated through light years:
mere decimal points on the spectrum
but quite the accomplishment, I write
the monkey writes,
everything is in-
significant against signification
of infinite; as if easily comprehended
if we define it as such. Still,
I write,
the monkey writes,
a string theory of unsaid.
Like the stars I gravitate
towards, but not into;
of mourning, I write,
the monkey writes,
this is all I have,
since the trees limbs were stripped,
since the veins were severed,
and we’re left to take our chances
over and over and over and
over in the pulp of our past
lives, I write,
the monkey writes,
leaves.