Negative space
in the areas which used to be
other, richer, more vivid, less pale,
intrinsic to existence on some plane,
unapparent to the untrained eye,
some mysterious color that
makes me scream and scream
while I am asleep,
the other areas which take up
the right-hand side of the page
in my Western society’s poetry-
prose-note writing experience,
there lies a dark beauty,
a dark unremarkableness, a
dark nothing. An empty cake,
a tired footprint, a twisted eye.
The imagined words in your ear.
The president of ice cream.
Wonder what to do in the
corner, to create something
which stands out, will
make you sit up and remember
in five years. "Yes," you
shout, "I was that person,
and those words are attached
to my soul."
The chalkboard is no more in
the face of the whiteboard;
that which is so easily erased
is easily ruined. We who ruin these
negative spaces are happy
in the chaos of their seemingly
unfettered dimensions.