Is my writing unique? Perhaps it’s too obscure or enigmatic. Will anyone read my poem? I’m sure no one but God will witness this. Nowhere will reproduce me for I have burned all my bridges. I entertain the possibility of profound failure. I tried to follow the protocol which provides certain uncertainties. Now I grasp at my sense of our memory that was your concept of ideal truth that remains missing. Despair for this enjoyment, then for horror and for death, and then you may rejoice for this fearful strain and joy. The stakes were always too high, and the rules keep changing into fixed boundaries which become absent. I cannot stay anonymous, rootless. I cannot escape these four static walls while everything’s changing. The world demands a concentration of forces, so all the energy I spend, I do without return. Burn them when I’m gone. Burn it all. The door was still, with a jab of the stick slammed shut, and all was completely silent.

First Published in 2008 in "Potato"