by Lew Colgan

Sometimes the words just flow
I am a channel
The words are not mine
They just are
They tumble out of me and into the world like spring snowmelt runoff out of the mountains and over the prairies to the sea
And my hand only writes them.

Sometimes that is the whole story
The process is complete.

Other times the words are changed
Distorted from their original meaning
By me
By the confusion in me
By the confusion that is me.

I exercise my imaginary skill as a writer and befuddle the words
The words lose their meaning.

When that happens
Rather than discard the words
I imagine listening to them
Hearing what they say to me
And then speaking what they told me.

I imagine I can speak-write that message
The message from the words.
I imagine my imaginarily skilled self writing the message the best way it can be written:
And full of spirit.

PHOTO: Tickling the keys of a manual Underwood typewriter.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lew Colgan lives in Colorado with an incredibly tolerant wife and two Jack Russell Terriers. He fancies himself a photographer and sometimes writer, mediocre but with occasional flashes of brilliance. He currently occupies an old man’s body, and tries not to confine himself to the corresponding mind.