Friday, April 3, 2015


Where the carcase is thither will the eagle be gathered together. One is drawn to death, not with a crayon but a magnet. Magnanimous opening, mountain's loose rock crumbling. The soul comes after, whatever it is. He wanted to like it more than he did. My fingers on the keys attract a kitten's mouth, needles to skin. To write joy is a politics. We talked about the word “legislator,” turned “law” into “truth,” moved on to Audre Lorde. She hasn't found her identity yet, one student said. I wondered if there was one to be found. Is it hyphen, pontoon, the tie that unbinds us? Even those of us without hyphens feel them, small growths inside our chests, commuters parked outside the zip lane awaiting contra-flow. Ideas are lived experience, if you're depressed enough. A kitten in a box loves walls and peep holes, solid form and its point of running off. Reciprocity is an idea best abandoned. I remember the echo of his voice in the grain elevator. I remember when the word was “jump,” not “elevate.” Transcendental wise ass!

--3 April 20

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