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manifest press

shit, i just made a leap. texting with kate and looking at a picture of an oil spill on the nigerian river, how beautiful, thinking about all the broken glass around my feet in oakland and the piles of trash with zizek talking in front of them about beauty. how everything just is, we don’t have to make it mean, it just means, but meaning is just nothing, it’s just us. it’s just suffering. it’s just beauty.

i know i’m enlightened i just can’t be it yet. when your brain or heart or body is too fast for your brain or heart or body. how you forget that you can just write, yes, you can, and it’s all just nothing, just us, just suffering.

she said “are you a little sad?” and you said that you always were, a little. your motion says being under, into the best of our worlds, and you remember crying.

you think about the book you need to make about piles of blue garbage bags in brooklyn. how tom’s hair curls down over his forehead. how kate’s does too, but differently. how silly it was when you tried to eliminate all those people from your writing about writing.

repeating arthur russell.

what’s the deal with argument when everything just is? how can i write the same thing over and over? i think i already am. like watching your thoughts be clouds against the theater of your mind.

performing for you.

there was a platform, three to six feet high off the ground and jutting out from a proscenium arch. someone pitched themselves forward and nearly teetered off the edge, but didn’t. something caught them.

you read it again and it was good.

nobody wanted to be that thing. nobody wanted it, really, even though they thought that they did. there’s so much shyness here, really, so much longing without expression of longing.

keyboards too easy, erasable.

what it means to write oneself into being, straddling the low, fat limb of a sprawling oak tree in the dry grass hills. looking for lions, chasing the hare, getting a tiny rock in your shoe. contrasting. wild. kept the line moving forward, or the boundary, straight as an arrow but still drooping to one side. talking out of the side of the mouth. curling down over the forehead.

bloodied bird wings, no body anywhere in sight, but shadows of a body, bird wings, splayed out and red on the sidewalk. our shadows looming over, bodies. stopping, then continuing down the sidewalk.

we’ve taken it to heart, this notion of letting it wash over, flow. redirecting reception. always receiving and looking for where to redirect, you are a channel. she could be a channel, switching.

that time on the train tracks, that time melting, that time waiting, that time switching.

somebody thought hard about how to receive this message, the meanings, someone noted that the click would become important, monumental, even. and it did, it really did. but others piled on to, onto, on too, got created in tandem. drawn out images interrupted.

images of what, though? sketches of models of loving you. holding your face and turning it up in yellow sun that shines off your forehead, curls falling backward, eyes closed and yellow sun reflecting toward the yellow sun. who was it anyway?

always in that one place, hard to sleep there too, but usually trying to hear what to do. how to sleep there.

the feelings were all gestures, disgusting, wiping saliva from the chin, stopping to masturbate and not washing your hands before returning to the work at hand. feeling all gestures.


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