The great American novel

 
I remember a story you told me

Of a man you met

He told you

You'll never be a writer, you like people too much

And while

You've always had the heart of a writer youve so rarely written. 

No matter how profound the thought

Thats because some people write more with their lives and their lungs

Your writings are mostly notes

To guide you along

To guide you home

Thoughts that lay disordered and organized at once

Flashcards and small booklets

You've always wanted to write

The great American novel

There's no books, yet

The great American novel

Is written like filigree in the folds of your skin

Written through kin

And generations of writers born from within you

Small seeds planted

Behind fingers firmly planted

On pencils and books of writings

A sharp wit twists into a sharp tongue

Twists into a thought flung

From other hands and other hearts

Out through papers and passages

The passing is

Through roots, not through your hands

From where was our way of words born?

From here of course

Now that you've run your course

Through us