This space looks empty.
I can hear the faint echo in this neglected gallery of self-portraits done in myriad forms. It's so quiet without the cacophony of run-on prose or the marked syncopation of comma after comma, dash upon dash, open open open parentheses. (Close close open close close parentheses.) It's funny how much louder the not-poetry was compared to the not-not-poetry. Non-existants never cease to amaze me.
Yet the echo is familiar--as it's me calling out, asking if I should return to curate, as I often do after bouts of inactivity...or, rather, activity elsewhere. I hear the whisper and wonder if it's worth it to put my words on the web. And reflect on why they're not here already.
Emotional exigencies aside, I'm compelled to dust off the cob webs for the sake of consistency. I've always written here, so I should write here--faulty logic that nonetheless strikes flawlessly at the part of me that yearns for the nostalgic and the familiar. I have no particular audience in mind save for the teeming millions who hunger tirelessly for the next word to slowly/effortlessly escape from the tips of my fingers. Satiating the masses with fishes, loaves, and the occasional semicolon.
And then there's the catharsis--the sweet kiss-on-the-cheek and belly rub of a thought-spark igniting a thousand pixels and, at the end, seeing meaning in the freshly burned forest. It's almost creative destruction except without the violence that it
Lastly: There's the fun of it all. Being coy. Being explicit. Making you work for it and being intellectual promiscuous. What's the risk compared to the reward? Why am I even asking you--aside from the fact that you're not likely to tell me to STOP while I'm ahead?
This space no longer looks empty--for awhile.