a CYPHER A kEY A pOEM
In August, 2002 I wrote a poem in my head. I hadn’t yet allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of unseen others, so I decided to transcribe it through some kind of double encryption that I would create.
That cipher and key just appeared to me in my inbox. I guess I wrote it somewhere and emailed it to myself to publish later on my journal.
< > > < (!=) > < > (!=) > (!=) = (!=) = > (!=) (!=) = (!=) > (!=) = (!=) < (!=) = < = (!=) = > = < = < > < > < < (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = (!=) > < > < < < > (!=) < < > (!=) = < > > (!=) < > < < < > < (!=) (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < (!=) < > > (!=) < > < < (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < = < > (!=) < < > = (!=) < > = (!=) (!=) > = > (!=) > (!=) (!=) (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > > < < = < (!=) (!=) > < > (!=) > (!=) = (!=) = > (!=) (!=) = (!=) > (!=) = (!=) < (!=) = < = (!=) = > = < = (!=) = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > = > < > < < < > (!=) < < = (!=) > < > > < < > = > < > < = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > < > < > (!=) < < = (!=) = < = < (!=) (!=) > = > (!=) > (!=) (!=) (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < (!=) < > > (!=) < > > < < = (!=) = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > (!=) = < > (!=) < < = (!=) > (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < = < > = = < > = > (!=) > < > (!=) > (!=) = (!=) = > (!=) (!=) = (!=) > (!=) = (!=) < (!=) = < = (!=) = > = < = < (!=) (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = (!=) = < = < (!=) < > = = < = (!=) (!=) (!=) > < > (!=) > (!=) = (!=) = > (!=) (!=) = (!=) > (!=) = (!=) = (!=) = (!=) (!=) (!=) = > = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < (!=) < > > (!=) < > < < < = (!=) = < > < < (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > (!=) > < = (!=) > < > < < < > (!=) < < = < (!=) < > > (!=) < = (!=) = (!=) > = (!=) (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > = < < = > < (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > = (!=) < > (!=) < < = (!=) = < = < (!=) (!=) > = >
this is the key
< = < (!=) < > > (!=) < > > < < = (!=) = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > > < < = (!=) = (!=) > (!=) (!=) < = < (!=) < > > (!=) < > < < (!=) > (!=) (!=) < > > = < > < < < = > <
Soon after, my brother and I visited Orlando. I awoke on the futon in my friends’ apartment. As my eyes opened I saw a torn half-sheet of paper on the floor. Hans, “a country boy from Okeechobee,” had stayed up all night solving the riddle. He scrawled the decrypted poem in perfect syntax and formatting on the paper with an addendum: “I hate you for this.”
Almost seven years later I still can’t figure out if I want to completely present myself on silver platter— apple in mouth— or if I want only the most dedicated to decrypt my mind.
Either way I fear all will hate me forever. I am a mess.
