Meathead Monologue

i don't understand what you write and i am sorry

his fingers type fast because his thoughts are faster, and he is afraid he might not get it all down.
his eyes are frantic as they scan paper and letters and keys and buttons, and they all become blurred together in a race he knows he cannot win.
he has a whirlwind in his head and he rocks back and forth, trying to contain it, but at the same time let it all out on paper.
his lips begin to tremble because he is running out of paper and his fingers are snapping, but he did not finish yet!
his writing is never done, his stories are never down, there is no end to things, not even beginnings.
so when he comes to his stopping point, when he finds a break in the paper, he gives it to me
and i read it.
but i cannot understand his tornado mind, i cannot understand the mess in his head. i cannot read the writing even though he used english, even though he used his typewriter. i cannot understand what the poet is trying to say.
i cannot understand him.
when i tell him so, he begins to sob. all his fingers broken and wasted, all his paper written on and wasted, all his ink used and wasted. all his problems remain, and they are wasted.

r.k.