there are three lost continents.  we are one: the lovers.

at the precise moment that tom robbins unplugged his Remington SL3 and tossed it out his window, across the alley was jane at her fire escape, tossing her precious shoe box of letters out her own window, for yet a third time.  they collided midair, the typewriter and the shoebox, and once again jane slid down the fire escape to retrieve her beloved ink and paper.  (this seems to be turning into a weekly ritual).  of the shattered typewriter, laying smashed and strewn over the blacktop, tangled in her letters like an exhausted, half asleep lover, she retrieved one of it's pieces.  the ? key.  into her pocket it went.

the signifigance of the question mark key of a Remington SL3 typewriter does not matter here.  but it will matter eventually.  we are sure of that.  we suspect it has the same signifigance of cigarettes and cocaine.  of a popsicle stick long after the the popsicle melts.  of paper cuts and paper napkins.  of dark roast coffee at dawn.

as jane climbed back up her fire escape (simply walking back up through the front door seems so much less romantic), shoe box and it's contents stuck inside the stretchy black camisol she was wearing, the stolen question mark made it's presence known, jabbing itself into her left thigh.  she thought perhaps it was trying to tell her something.  or perhaps her jeans were just too tight.

the question mark originated as a representation of the Latin word QUAESTIO, originally 'seeking' but later 'question'.  the abbreviation 'Qo' was written by scribes at the end of a sentence which was meant to be a question.  over time, this 'Qo' was simplified into the curlicue and underdot which is our question  mark.

rapunzel had dreadlocks.  snow white never ate an apple again.  and cinderella.  well, cinderella took up the tarot, and began dabbling in witchcraft soon after she witnessed a carriage turn into a pumpkin.  the earth is flat.  believe me or don't.  the phone will always be ringing off the hook.  doorbells will always be jingling with lady and gentlemen callers.  but no one seems to have the right poetry.  and as it stands, i think the right poetry is stuck to the bottom of lady marmalades's shoe. 

in the community of muses, i am the tramp.  yes, i am the slut of the muses. i've been passed around;  immortalized in screen plays, novels, songs, and all that jazz.  i've had paintings painted of me.  sketches of my face on napkins of cafes.  but every word that is beautiful has already been said.  and the world is making promises of love and devotion every second.  and every promise is the exact same promise that has been uttered for thousands of years.  wouldn't helen of troy just throw her head back and laugh at all of it?  i think she would.  i'd much rather be kidnapped than courted.  it would be a bit more exciting.  she got lucky.  the rest of us, we get dinner and a movie.  roses on valentines day.  hallmark greeting cards.  and all of the poetry is the same.  what no one understands, is that there is a new language that has yet to be spoken.  but it sticks to our tongues.  and it never gets past our teeth.  it is why we have to create.  it is why anthony must never stop writing.  (for he has discovered the dialect, but unfortunately the world has not yet discovered him.  it is why jane believes in him whole heartedly.  because she knows that if he does not give up.  if he does not throw his typewriter out the window, he can teach this language to the world.  anthony is a kidnapper.)

the language will spill out from behind our teeth eventually.

it's why we have to listen for the moon.  the moon speaks.  the moon determines the menstrual cycles of women.  the moon turns men into werewolves once a month.  the moon is made of lust and used popsicle sticks.  the moon doesn't burn our skin if we are out too long without a parisol.  the moon doesn't require us to wear dark glasses to protect our eyes.  the moon is the greatest lover of all.  who writes better poetry than the moon?  no one.  because the moon's poetry is unreadable, undefinable, impossible to comprehend.  it's why we have to listen.  for when it speaks.  because when it does speak, it tells the best secrets of all.

as for the question mark, well, the question mark is holding out for moon.  love is anarchy, and personally, i think anarchy believes in fairy tales.