The “Thing”

I see myself sitting in a chair

looking at a screen the way I 

have for many years; the same

schtick, routine, manifesting a

minor player in a drama complicated 

seven billion times, not including

extraterrestrial extras that slide behind

the scene.  Nothing said was ever new,

nothing ever written original. It was and

is memory in the echo resonances of

previous words that have been cried for

millennia; songs proclaiming the wonders

and horrors of life, the “Thing” inside 

us all, bursting to get out and sing.