The voices say various things.


They urge me to write something

pleasantly disconcerting,

that sounds like it’s been translated

from some indeterminate language.


They urge me to work

the inadequacy of language

the way a stubborn surfer

works the waves

until they yield their gift.


So I plunge into fragments,

ready to expend on each one

my precious supply of energy,

ready to start again (each time

with a touching sense of hope),

willing to suspend temporarily

if not disbelief at least my despair.


Detecting how each of them is

my own, my very own perfect voice,

demanding to be taken seriously.