Where does our relation with the pen begin? A thought, image, sound, word, phrase, sentence? How does alliteration prowl with our ears, replay each movement, claw the spectacular, the layers, the cliff we numb over which drops us into our trauma?

In this arena we smell the silent witness of becalming space. Arrest the heart through a breeze-flush window. A draft-open-yawn of yesterday smothers the unmade tongue of tomorrow. Let’s greed through our lust-worthy slopes, unkempt family rooms dim with emotional cataracts.

You don’t get out of bed before noon. Or you crack the crack of dawn, cradle guilt in a flock of peacock-fancy? Who cares, right? Let’s surrender the known.

Write into the collage of pain and beauty. Give each sentence its own wisdom.  

“Her arms belonged to a Hattie, potato-white, fat-puckered, floury-fat arms, which when she lifted them to put away the jam smelled sour.” –Christine Schutt

“For example, you walk on the curb and you watch the doorways which keep coming up on the one side you’ve got to watch. In other words, it’s times like these when you have got to get all the way up on them. I mean, on the toes in the corners of your eyes.” –Gordon Lish

“For the last three days, alone, without characters, I depersonalize myself and take myself off as if taking off clothes.” –Clarice Lispector

“Will my son be covered in a thick, grey dust of government’s toxins

of silent murder?

Black clouds of policies and circumstance?

Ash of corporate greed gripping

his innocence by the throat until

childhood becomes a whisper.”–Pages D. Matam

“I’d authored him in my bones, he was my allegory, analogy, corollary, mirror, I forged his suffering, his nail, his needle, his thrill. Of course, I swallowed the stupid pill.” –Diane Seuss

“It was at a moment when time, demented and wild, breaks away from the treadmill of events and like an escaping vagabond, runs shouting across the fields.” –Bruno Schulz