2008-05-19 - 12:08 a.m.
The poets are not poets
and the thieves are not thieves
And 17 is not 17
all of these things are relations like you or me, or an inchoate voice,
beginning to speak.
When I find my voice, that voice will be gone or shattered
Let it be shattered, because it is not the voice
The, any wide voice would be overwhelming, death would ensue
so for now let not me speak to not you,
as I try to adjust to electricity and computers
How can the feminine be delicate and so rough?
It (the feminine) starts with a caress and then requires violence
to activate the stars and beam. Then why rev it?
In other words, things are mixed up,
and when I pulled these pixel dot words out of the space dust tonight
grip was good and heavy and dependable
but now grip, you are a relief in this material
and heat and motion will melt us back into the ground,
from whence we sprang and commuted.
The possibility and certainty that the world will end
is what has always made me so happy
because this too is part of the world
and after a genuine deep sleep is the best time for a new mother.
I will restart you,
after I finish this poem
In Sweden or Norway, in you
