Spontaneous writings like the previous twenty-three poems written on the screen have their own internal beauty and perfection, a life of their own apart from mine. My own words are in the shape of a caracol, a shell with labios, that kiss and hiss at your eyes. My words are written with the ink of squids, sprayed to intoxicate, to entrance you into the utopia of the deep blue of my mouth, where the words congeal.
You cannot scribble on the screen. The screen is flat, black and white, sin chiste. The screen is very demanding of your imagination, unlike the way a typewriter clacks letter by letter and the way paper absorbs ink and my handwriting is unmistakable.
However, between the paper and the screen lies my own consciousness, unchanging and indisputable. Language, spoken word, is practical consciousness. Writing here, my consciousness is scratching against your eyes, a virtual graffiti bombing of your mind.
The flat screen takes all the fun out of my scribblings. Here you will never notice how a left-handed writer writes very weird cursive as a result of writing with her right hand. Cursive becomes cursing, becoming calligraphy. Left becomes right; lost in the ink of my skin to be reborn in the bytes of your memory chip.