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Copyright Jordan Davis.


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wTuesday, 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 I
Will, harrowingly, try to end with me.

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 #