The joys of ink,
archaic authors often refer to,
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,