Word-Fucked

1
In a train, say,
watching a barn slide 
the length of my parallelogram,
I annotate. Barn, rusty tin roof 
car keeping pace with us
passing us
woods, 
dog barking its head off.
Whatever.
Nobody reads the footnotes.

2
I knew a precocious
three year old memoirist.
Summer, by the seashore, say:

I’m  running on sand
to the edge of the water.
This sand is smooooth!
Where it’s dark it’s wet.
I’m standing on the wet.
It fits my feet with cooool.
See that wave sliding in
Uh oh,
It better not reach me
I’m not budging.
Look how it’s licking my toe.

Obviously NOT what I’m getting at here.

3
I meet X with a hug of  fellowship
and while we are talking
	how’s Sheila?
I record the moments as they pass 
like a chyron perpetually scrolling 
across my frontal cortex.
	And the kids?

4
Even when I’m not thinking anything 
I do it in words.
No syntax, each on its own.
The word for this is word-fucked.
Like lice in my guts.

5
I married a deaf wife, that didn’t work.
I moved deeper into the wilderness,
North, to the silence where the loon laughs aloud.

Very few things here
but just as many words.

redundant, inapplicable
like a cloud of bloodthirsty mosquitoes
wherever I go.

But how about you Reader? Perhaps
you use words mostly just to say things
like good morning, how’s my honey, give me a break, Merry Christmas, I can’t find my                           keys, and so forth.