Writers are afraid. Almost all those whose instrument of work is language are afraid: journalists, critics, university teachers, almost all of them. Fear and lies govern their tastes and their activities. Fear of what? Fear of death by social starvation, fear of not being invited to the dominant banquet, fear of not immediately receiving a pittance of compliments, fear of not being published, of not winning prizes, of not being invited onto the greatest possible number of TV programs. Fear of not belonging to the powerful cliques that reign over institutions private and public, fear of not belonging to the inquisition clubs. Fear for their reputation, fear of not being cited in the maximum number of papers, fear of not always being congratulated, of never being congratulated, fear of being unmasked and called inferior, fear of not getting in touch with the establishment, fear of never getting a taste of power, fear of exile, of cold, of solitude, of that sever climate that follows the artist, as Joyce well knew. Fear of being honest and of this old fashioned virtue costing them very dearly indeed.

Helene Cixous, We who are free, are we free?

searching for certainty,

starting with this.

see how it ends.

a wall.

boundaries,

reinforcing

reinforcing

boundaries,

but where to punctuate?

(move your foot please,
i'd like to end where you're standing)


sifting through files

and in a soundless sorting,

a wall.

boundaries,

reinforcing

reinforcing

but where to punch-you-at?


in the midst of all this

her unheeded advice

don't overlove

it's demeaning

boundaries

reinforcing

reinforcing


i ask,

though it doesn't matter what you write here,

what if all of these years

you've been punctuating air?


but she can't hear it.

not over the

reinforcing.

reinforcing.