The joys of ink

The joys of ink,
archaic authors often refer to,
elude me.

What about the visceral joy of
slamming keys in rapid succession,
as if beating metaphor from tool,

like a gorilla with a bone?

It is more organic to callous fingers
with the unforgivingly narrow A’s and R’s and S’s,

than sport calligraphy across the page,
as if the form affected the depth of the content.

I have never been able to write as fast as I think,
so my longhand is shortened thought.

It omits the motion, the arc of my discourse;
It sounds childlike, asinine,

despite the swan’s neck of my F or G,

or the figure skater tracing
my O or P across the newly frozen lake.

No, typing is my interface,
my interactive device for these conversations,

it is my microphone,
my bone.