1 part beckett's 'watt', 3 parts idiocy
there is something wrong with it; to name something is to create it, but the name soon outstrips the creation. it grows larger, like chinese dragon with a thousand shining scales and a mouth filled with the impressions of teeth. the image that is reflected on the blank wall, the sound of a book page creasing; the name rests between your teeth, where the bristles of your brush don't reach. chair, chair, we may be comforted. this is my chair. (the sun is the sun because it looks like a sun) this is my chair, and I sit upon the 'c', swing easily on the 'h' and stretch, breathing heavily, on the broad back of the 'a'. i will say it three times like dorothy: 'chair, chair, chair'. like an islamic divorce that requires three breaths talaq talaq talaq, your tongue skidding over the edges of the letters. and then, in the mornings, your three words have conjured up an empty bed and perhaps in the far corner underneath the diffuse lamplight or next to the cupboard or to the side of the blue curtains, a construction of wood and word that resembles a chair.