February 11th, 2014

I keep falling behind days for no reason that is very good and now I am sick and I have
slept all day and I see a book of postmodern poetry on the floor and I am afraid I may be
up all night at it, at that chipping block, chiseling to make sense and shape of something
I don't even believe in but how could i not of course this is confessional but hardly also is
it confessional. it's everything that's come before it, eh, too, yeah? No. and yes. It is the
sweepings of dirt and hay in dusty corner in the sunny ally through buildings made of material
I don't understand but recognize like the locks in eyes sometimes that I've stopped trying
to translate or pick because I feel the edges of what it means and I am not ready for it. Let
me get back on my motorcycle and ride through a monolithic graveyard to a wallflowers
song at sunset across the country. And then the graves turn out to be lot's wife. All of them.
But she was a blessing, my student says, she is a pillar for us. She is salt to preserve truth.
fine. But if you keep looking back, all your gardens will be planted in reverse and when you
go to reap what you sow you will find all the potatoes on top of the soil, bitten through by all
the things that bite. I want the things that belong in dirt to stay there for a season. I ripen too.