Open-ended Discovery

On this excursion to see if this thing inside me is real, I am tiptoeing,

almost child-like as I am coming to realize how threadbare I must become as I

submit to words; past, present and in the ether. Literature is a fast

moving vehicle, upon which I will have to grasp hold of tightly, but with my

eyes dilated, and my mouth opened wide, sucking in every dimension of theory,

its metaphors, its adjectives and dangling participles. Lurking somewhere

in all of this exploration and query are my own words and expressions being

remembered, rediscovered, and created. They are sometimes frightful and sad.

Sometimes they are ambitious. And, sometimes they are nonsensical.

They are serious and lopsided and full of micro waved, popcorn induced ideas

about spirituality. They are riding on warm, brackish ripples of

apprehension and testimony. Yet, they are uniquely my own and

unapologetic. I own this. I own them, and they me.