Not book

On transcription

(thoughts while weaving a small notebook through a migraine onto the computer)

In transcription I sneak around for poetry but insist the lists must too be taken down. The light from the false page pierces through my eye while the words stab through a funnel placed into the back of my skull. The crown slips and I cannot draw the letters thickly enough to keep the light out.  Is there a poem to be had in a list of books too expensive to be purchased, or a game in answering half-written questions, to publish what's really beautiful feels like stealing. 

(thoughts while squeezing the cheesecloth of this webpage and an ice cream truck plays)

In choosing letters to send to you I'm hopscotching the keyboard and diving through gridded looped pushing tender through a broken seam like a weed with no purpose other than to see the sky.