After XIV, 2005


And somehow I wonder how we

ever managed to live before we knew

adenosine and scapula and macrophage

and watched with curious invasions the

mitoses of a million unknown brethren and then

further – as in all things, all thrills, all deep hungers, never

satisfied with the joy already in front of us – as we began with

feverish indignation, with righteous entitlement, to uncode, unfold,

unravel the very letters and words of our

deepest identities –

                                 and yet somehow we

did live. We ate, breathed, slept, and made

love to our wives, who carried for us hundreds and thousands of

children, new lives always springing from old ones, joined to, joyed with

one another –

                        and all this without knowing

how it all worked, was it was all “called.” We did not need to “call” these things

at all. They came to us


in the first place.


Is anyone still there? We shall see. Regardless, I am here. Even if I am the only one. Hope everyone is well.    – R.E.W. 

micropoem: the writer in a box


i have heard it said

write what you know

which is a great idea

in theory


what if

i know





i asked him

which one i should read first

books like ladders like castles

reaching far wide high deep

behind each another

each only in place to hold another up

this one a sequel another a prequel

here a history

here a poem

here a philosophy

here wisdom

the very walls built structure held together by pages seams binds

the windows made from gaps in words

the door from holes in universes

it does not matter

he says

for you cannot read them all

in this life

though I have says the Librarian

I have

and I can read them to you


every day i am again at the Library

(when i remember)

and the Librarian reads to me

why do you do this i ask him one day


I want to

he says

and I told you

it is because