The Expression To Write Something Down Suggests

I Should Like To Suggest That At Least On The Face Of It A Stroke By Stroke Story Of A Copulation Is Exactly As Absurd As A Chew By Chew Account Of The Consumption Of A Chicken's Wing.

I Cannot Walk Under The Wires. The Sparrows Scatter Like Handfuls Of Gravel. Really, Wires Are Voices In Thin Strips. They Are Words Wound In Cables. Bars Of Connection.

The Word Itself Has Another Color. It’s Not A Word With Any Resonance, Although The E Was Once Pronounced. There Is Only The Bump Now Between B And L, The Relief At The End, The Whew. It Hasn’t The Sly Turn Which Crimson Takes Halfway Through, Yellow’s Deceptive Jelly, Or The Rolled-down Sound In Brown. It Hasn’t Violet’s Rapid Sexual Shudder Or Like A Rough Road The Irregularity Of Ultramarine, The Low Puddle In Mauve Like A Pancake Covered In Cream, The Disapproving Purse To Pink, The Assertive Brevity Of Red, The Whine Of Green.

So To The Wretched Writer I Should Like To Say That There’s One Body Only Whose Request For Your Caresses Is Not Vulgar, Is Not Unchaste, Untoward, Or Impolite: The Body Of Your Work Itself; For You Must Remember That Your Attentions Will Not Merely Celebrate A Beauty But Create One; That Yours Is Love That Brings It Own Birth With It, Just As Plato Has Declared, And That You Should Therefore Give Up The Blue Things Of This World In Favor Of The Words Which Say Them

What One Wants To Do With Stories Is Screw Them Up.