Subject to Change

The neural spark is ill-defined, a cloud of unknowing. Nothing begins anywhere. The tail of the snake is its neck. The body grows out of its closed eyes. An uncertain vapor trail sheds hieroglyphic fragments, they could be words, or only the residual cooling of a brief potency, a fast-evaporating speculation now only a dilatorily dripping from its dormant inkwell. You don't know, you just don't get it, until it takes shape, then a flint strikes a low adumbrate sky, only then does meaning arrive to burn your tongue. You, (this is your part), with have to make changes, fillet out the serpent's pin-bones, or words will stick in your mouth. This is how a poem begins. This is how a poem begins, not with a thought or a whisper but with a sly electric slither.