Red Room Where the Writers Are

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sign language 

the thoughts we never speak

coil like sleeping serpents

in our swollen heads.

our minds meet on dark corners,

flashing sign language

in a blur of anxious fingers

and bloody wrists,

greetings of goodwill,

fixations of honor.

we humbly search for gods

on the outbound trains,

hoping to be saved

from the back switch

downhill profusion.

aware of our bloated egos

we prop them up on easels

and display them in museums

for the curious and devoted.

and all along

the walls of the fortress

our brains waste away,

sheltered from the storm,

yet lost in the fizzle.