In the margins of my notebook are peonies and poodles: I write with a pink or a purple pen. I think better in poems and songs than paragraphs. I write faster with voice recordings. I understand more through action than I do through words.
I understand more the language of greased hands than I do your words and jargon. And beautiful actions prove more precious than lovely words. Positions and titles do not impress me. The grandeur of modernity fails to grasp my attention.
If we should amass wealth should it not be counting in love? Let us not hold our head so highly that we forget our original positions.
Why do our words lack color? Black mirrors and white paper? I want to be immersed within the color—— sonically and physically. Hand me a pink or purple pen!
Some of us think better though song. We think better at twilight or dawn
Perhaps our global presentation of self is obscured. Assumptions are made our aptitudes and trajectories. Resilient, we refuse to concede.
Uncertain of our direction, genealogies, and histories. Pages and pages and pages of words that we have written, questions we pose …. But what have we learned?
How do we love and live authentically? Such a loaded term is authenticity.
My mouth outruns my hands.
Accelerating words and spaces. Selling words and stumbling through spaces. Jumbled vagrant words systems and signs. What valence are these theories?
We have the power of election. Moral, ethical choice and selection.
I’ll keep writing with my pink and purple pen
Perhaps, the ghost in my head is freed through the numerous recasts of my mind. Clarity is gained through the rummage of my mouth. These doodles help me to find healing within myself.
When I have no one to speak to I speak with myself. I move my feet and find the skies and the trees and the nature and the bees and I have nothing but songs to give to no one.
Then let this be my curse and my blessing—— that my mouth is free to roam but my hands are bound to give. This is the only way that I have ever found peace to live.
The Silent Singer 