typing with my eyes closed: geto your hands out of YOUR MOUTH

The day in sputters with behind furbelows, sweat in summer spice as pre-recognized algebraic smithereens. This is willing something to happen, it’s entropy that scares me. The words find themselves on the screen and look at each other in vemazement. hyere we are. Here I am again, another morning, trying to figure out why I don’t have a very positive attitude although fundamentally all is presrserving a kind of balance. Every day there is this sqyurm, exploited like a child does its loose tooth. I don’t have any goals, all I want to do is write poems. That’s it. Or if I could just sit like this every day with my eyes closed typing I think I would be perfectly happy, although I would prefer a correspondence, and I would prefer is if it didn’t hurt y spine, but there’s something about this feeling of language flowing through my body ind making my fingers dance that is like no other. For this I have sacrificed many bourgeois niceties and bodily comfort and even the ability to form other sorts of goals: just this feeling, it’s like a sheaf of perfectly ripe millet swaing in slow motion on the back of a truumpant worker, I can see every little grain head flower moving in the hot wind. If it’s not about this feeling, I don’t know what it’s about. A container with a peacock engraved on it, the peacock wants to talk. The book wants to turn into some kind of millet. I don’t want to go to work today, I want to just sit here with my gingers moving. Are you with me? My poems are heavy with this feeling, or light with it, or anyway animated by it. It has never beem for me, about distance, or about working to change anything except the entrop no that’s ot what I mean. Bo, not wuite it, suddenly I am thinking of stew, why, on such a hot day, stew? Biij as stew. Many things kill. Racism kills, we have notived, recently. Also, life kills itself so that it an generate more life.e This is a very interesting principle that is at once heartbreaking and als a soncolation. Do you not think every day about how extraordinary this is? Time lapse photography. Now I almost can’t open my eyes. My body is covered with sweat. The book is filled now with little cupid chimerae. I love this book, it’s a stir in some kind of cauldron. Poecrawl their way up out of the steamy abyss somehow, and I should have eaten something, at least some yoguyr or a piece of toast. I don’t know, some people didn’t behave well, I haven’t always behaved well, but them it was like the mother on the train yesterday, the abusive mother, who lifted up her tuny beautiful daughter practieclly by the armpiut saying SIT DOWN, geto your hands out of YOUR MOUTH, and the little girl swuirmed, put her hands between her knees to keep herself from putting her hands in her mough I gazed guriously at the mom, buat what can one say. That poor little shoulder. I don’t remember what my analogy was here but I suppose I feel, in relation to these poems, that I am a little bit like that daughter, although that could just be a cover to deny my agency. What is agency? Someone told me it ws debunked. I never know who to believe. So mny of my friends have these well formed sort of edifieces of opinioen and theories, we enjoy complaining, we feed off of a kind of solidarity of complaining. And we rory a lot, this is something we discussed, but to me anxiety is just another mode of that crawling up the sides of abyss…