During the course of a day, I ask myself any number of strange, ridiculous questions. And the answers I give are just as strange and ridiculous — at any rate, they’re hardly the type of thing one would bring up in normal conversation.

As an example, here’s a question I asked myself a couple of days ago, followed by my answer:

Question: If language has a common root, what would that root look like if unearthed? What would happen if it were exposed to the sun?

Answer: Genesis, I suspect. A spontaneous eruption of stellar dialect, in eager breaths dispersed by the four winds. Verse derived from Martian song, seasons long and sweet with passion, trembling stones, dreams alighting on newly imagined rooftops, and endless ways to say them all.

There. See what I mean? Now what, exactly, am I supposed to do with this?

I should also mention that while I was answering my question, a picture of a farmer working in a field arose in my mind — and, wouldn’t you know it, he stumbled onto this rather large, unlikely looking root, and immediately began tugging at it. He tugged for hours, bringing more and more of it to the surface. As he worked, his countenance changed: his eyes glowed like miniature suns; his face was lit from within. . . .

Also by William Michaelian

Winter Poems

ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco

Signed copies available

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