Here I am again – unwilling, unable, unmoved – with absolutely nothing to say and enough causes in the eye & ear & head to choke the soul if I had one but I swapped it for silver long ago – too long, really – leaving a numbed hole in the voice, some gurgles in my throat, a deep sleep with no waking, and veins too shallow, too stuffed with nothing, with something, to do any good for a fist raised in the dead air of change – but I write these words anyway, realizing that no one will read them or if they do, won’t believe the message nor be able to recall an image, a theme, a point, an hour from now, or even five minutes – so maybe I should just stick a pin into a wall map already swallowed or nearly so by waves of pins with the idea of what’s one more – although I was secretly hoping for something true, something as lasting as Thoreau’s things don’t change, we do – but that’s once in a lifetime ... “Anger or revolt that does not get into the muscles remains a figment of the imagination.” Simone de Beauvoir
Sam Rasnake’s works have appeared in OCHO, Wigleaf, > kill author, Big Muddy, BLIP, Poets / Artists, fwriction : review, MiPOesias, Literal Latté, Connotation Press, Portland Review, Best of the Web 2009, BOXCAR Poetry Review Anthology 2, andDogzplot Flash Fiction 2011. His latest collection is Inside a Broken Clock (Finishing Line Press).
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