The voices say various things.
They urge me to write something
pleasantly disconcerting,
that sounds like it’s been translated
from some indeterminate language.
They urge me to work
the inadequacy of language
the way a stubborn surfer
works the waves
until they yield their gift.
So I plunge into fragments,
ready to expend on each one
my precious supply of energy,
ready to start again (each time
with a touching sense of hope),
willing to suspend temporarily
if not disbelief at least my despair.
Detecting how each of them is
my own, my very own perfect voice,
demanding to be taken seriously.