I Write, the Monkey Writes

      Using both
        hands at once; a good time-
    saving skill these days, nothing
             like the old motion:
                                random collisions
      between flesh and key.

                    A thousand words per
             minute translated through light years:
mere decimal points on the spectrum
    but quite the accomplishment, I write

                    the monkey writes,
                             everything is in-
          significant against signification
             of infinite; as if easily comprehended
                        if we define it as such. Still,
        I write,

             the monkey writes,
                    a string theory of unsaid.
          Like the stars I gravitate
                        towards, but not into;
         of mourning, I write,

                  the monkey writes,
       this is all I have,
                since the trees limbs were stripped,
           since the veins were severed,

                    and we’re left to take our chances
          over and over and over and
               over in the pulp of our past
                        lives, I write,

               the monkey writes,