Hand Wings

She spoke with her hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.

She dreamed of writing a short story, perhaps flash fiction.

Nervous, she selected a pen. She unscrewed the black ebony summit. She opened a black notebook. She made a pot of green tea. She started with flowing calligraphy letters.

My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.

Her story emerges from nothing. Discover a point of departure, a direction.

She drew a picture. It looked like this.

An illusion of a mirage -

the soul filled with silence,

an abyss

in which the whole world

disapears beneath the pressure

of a single thought, memory, look.

Meaning and Sense.

Meaning shows itself at once, direct,

literal, explicit, enclosed in itself.

Sense cannot stay still radiating

out in directions that divide and subdivide.

The sense of every word

is like a star

hurling spring tides out into space,

cosmic winds, magnetic perturbations, afflictions.