The Typewriter's the Kind.
The typewriter's the kind of heavy gray
that's good for leaning on.
I sit in front-- that's not true anymore of typewriters.
Forgive me for interrupting myself.
You know that's one of my great regrets
about the electronic age, you can't lean on your typewriter
anymore, you know.
It collapses in a little plastic heap of letters,
you know, dials and daisies.
And who needs it, you know?
I want something I can lean on.
The typewriter is the kind of heavy gray
that's good for leaning on.
I sit in front of it with holes torn in my meanings.
Or a heart so full of complication I
can't even start to start.
And on the radio the cello's unaccompanied.
And on the hour the news is entendu.
I lay my arms upon the typewriter,
my head upon my arms, and breathe, and breathe,
and breathe, and there is all the cool immutability
a fevered human needs.
Its current humming constant like the speed
of light or fact of water.
There is death on Earth this moment.
Always is already.
Then I can get up and mend and celebrate
and see the endless world's unsaveability.
And you thought it was for typing.