There will be no first person singular in this writing.
Give up on the idea that one can express the singularity,
That there’s anything other than the normative
or the suggestive eye
That we’ve got something more than what we want you to do
That there’s a big sale today
And you’re just in time to catch limited times
On offer the offal what’s left when the rest is roasted
Contractions everywhere, lacking time with this thinking machine
ticking away the clack
a set of keys lighted from beneath
the warm glow of a machine whose love is directed only to these fingers.
We touch more than anyone else,
Gushing over, I realize now that it’s absurd to occlude my voice
This insistence on being generalized
Or indirect; I’m not talking to you.