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Tuesday, October 04, 2005
This is in fact how it begins.
I roll forward from the core
And put my feet on the rag rub.
Rag rug, blue doubt, fire window.
It is coming on winter.
I want there to be other people
In the story, I hate the astronaut
Feeling of these writerly limit cases.
I want to be with you
So much that I clean my house.
I put everything in my house in a pile
And call a van to come collect it.
Every sentence beginning with
Will, harrowingly, try to end with
It is unseemly for grown men to make art.
This is why grown men make art:
You see someone you want
And grab hold of them before
Time streaks you with parti-colored light.
Time wants you to make more music.
I want the insights you express
As incidental remarks.
posted by Jordan