Without Name

"Look at the blog," I ordered him like a little puppy dog. "Look at the whirlwind of words. How they run in a web right around the whole wide world. Look."

"So what?" he woofed right back.

"So this. Why the leash of office life, why the sty of the city? Why not act as words speak? Demolishing cities to dust, say, in the space between a question-mark and a full-stop.

"Why not flood the air with a fleet of fists, roaming around the great globe itself, fisting the human debris with raw hurt? Why not chase down the chicks in their changing rooms, flicking away all the misty steam of this world, with just one stroke of the wrist? Like words, grope in the guise of a gift, governed by the will to get? (Of course - with, I, Fist, the calm, controlling eye of your storming self.)"

"Words, words, words," he snarled back after a bit. A temp was teetering around in the cabinets.

"Millions of them. Millions of words trekking around millions of worlds. And yet there - the temp, look, her pale, exposed neck, as up she stretches up. How many places from that fragile edge of the ear to the angle of her shoulder blade? More than all the words of this warring world put together. O, that little line of skin, so wholly without name. So soft to touch with the tongue! Or trace with a finger. And what would the languages of earth weigh then, in the black wordless nowhere of a bedroom at night, where the contours of her face move across your face, and your hand is lost to the world, lost amongst the long, looping ringlets of her hair?

"So much, Fist, for your war of words and worlds!"

Silence. But we will speak later.