A small woman with not enough

teeth told me in a Japanese

restaurant that I am not remembering


while typing, but recognizing. My

fingers atop the laptop are not recalling

anything from what one is led


to refer to as a mind. They merely

register recognized patterns of characters

represented by geometrically black


squares, that even highlight the notation

in capitalized white print; a friendly

compensation. Who am I to argue?


I smile as she sips politely on her

miso soup, reach for my fork and

pick up the chop sticks, and wonder.


I've been known to punch out

entire novels on bar counters, drunkenly

mistaken by others to be accompanying


jukebox riffs on imaginary ivory. I've woken

up wilted and sore from transcribing my

dreams on my chest and thighs,


and was a terror to friends who slept

over who I thought I could proselytize with

my virtual prose. Why, I ask her, bother?