(an anachrofragmentizm)
When looking for a voice,
one’s own, that is, for what,
exactly, is one looking? What
are we, you and I, looking for?
That which the chunk that is
the carapace that houses a
bleeding throat from which
come the utterances and the
ululations that make whatever
song (be it hard or easy on the
ear, the possibilities are endless
like signatures or fingerprints)
spills from it. What is its
purpose? To lure like a
siren? To coerce like a
salesman or a magician?
Is the aim clear; is it broad
or narrow, honed or brusque?
Does it reach the ears of the
intended or echo its way into
a vast and craggy nowhere?
