Anonymous Nonsense

A man sitting down, sat to write holy writ, 
To speak to his people, his people-not-yet,
Because seeing his shelves all exposed, he went,
“Write your soul,”
His plan was to open his heart up like a vent,
Not look at the sheets that the typewriter spewed,
Said, “Fret not on syntax: just to you make it true.”

His eyes filled with tears rolled back into visions,
As his fingers translated haphazard decisions.
All was insp’ration—ins’pration so great
None was craft
But out-crafted most crafters most crafted, by fate.
But, when he open his eyes to the page pile trees,
What he saw was, his fingers, resting not on home keys.
Nothing was sense.
All he could see was qoo ouijed ap-fee.ded voo cewi,.
Wense awl lee vense o;uijed !no-eek,led; and 3.


Jason Wilder Konschak