Years of Writing for a Private Public

     There is something special that you get when you are writing on-line. Something that you don't get when you are quietly composing your thoughts and words on paper. The open window with it's "Submit" button. The feeling that there is a world out there, ready to receive, digest and ignore everything you are saying. To rail against the machine. To be bold. To be bolstered by your confidants. To speak and regret. To be stubborn and insightful. To be on the fly. To know only that you will write and not what you will write. To assassinate grammar and spelling with cold hard disdain for their functionality. To paganistically worship in moments of rapture, the mundane, the insignificant, the overlooked and the under appreciated.

     I'm here for you. I am live. We are pirate radio gone rabid. So many voices that we become lost. We become factions, we become groups, statistics (lies, damned lies and statistics). So we Pump Up The Volume. It's Christian Slater "Was it bigger than a babies arm?" pretending that he's not in Fountain Hills. We should have said something more. We should have said no. We should have done something other than rant and crack jokes. But this is what we do. I have no problem with that. It is a great thing, this voice, this need. Speak when you can. Pass on what you are in viral combinations. Talk Hard. Rant poetry on street corners if you have to. If you have to. If you have to.

     How I love you. How I wish I were you, were knowing what you've known, were understanding this new thing, this human thing that we all get by virtue of being human. Instantaneous and luminous. Elucidate. Gather in coffee shops and hide behind laptops. Rooms full of people in virtual rooms having virtual conversation virtually all the time. How I love you. I run deliveries all day, longing for this, for home, for moments when I can rightly express myself. There is a wall that comes down, not brick by brick, but atom by atom, dispersing in a white wave of light and energy, and it is fuel for the fire, it is grist in the mill. I am making a fine powder of my beliefs and my desires. And these moments, these fleeting seconds before transmission are the staples that get me by. Potatoes, bread, milk and eggs. Rice and butter. Water. Air.

     I can feel you out there because I am delusional. I imagine that someone reads though I never write. I imagine that someone is made whole or broken, though such a thing is rare. I hope that I am not a fool, but such hopes are lost in wander texts like these. So instead I hope that this feeling will come again, that I will write again, whether I am a fool or not. That in these moments I am close to you, whoever you are, that I am close to God, creating on the fly, that I am more myself. I hope at all, and hope too is a rare thing.