other animals

IIII

I close the door to bring the silence closer. I’m so fucking poetic. I’m trying to remember to call my sister later. I am trying to discover the best way to brew this tea. I have a pinching sensation in my left shoulder. I wonder if sitting and writing like this will be comfortable after 10 minutes. I think I have been figuring things out. I really wanted to use the old safety pen, but the ink bleeds through this cheap paper. I once really loved a Moleskine. I had a feeling that there should have been a final e, but I have corrected that and the reader will never know. I remember that e in Japanese means a painting or paintings. I wonder if this sense of tiredness could successfully be rebranded as quietude or some such. I think I’ll need new glasses soon. I feel fairly happy with a fair few of my sonnets. I can hear my neighbor sneezing on the other side of the wall. I think I’ll move to the couch. I was wondering about my need to generate rules. I brush the backs of my teeth for 30 seconds then switch to the front for 30 seconds then repeat one more round of each for a total of two minutes. I’m feeling very warm. I started to wonder where that fire and surrealistic vigor has gone is it sleeping or one more thing that only I enjoy. I am constantly taping myself into a box and trying to break out then crying over the ruins. I think of poor Waldo Jeffries. I think that was on White Light/White Heat. I used to know this like it was my job. I certainly don’t miss that job. I like the warm light from this lamp that we had sent from Australia after my father-in-law passed. I like the cold light from the tiny gooseneck lamp in the other corner, which reminds me in a small way of a big fluorescent desk lamp I had in the late 80s. I feel so old referencing stuff from those dark days. I would sometimes love to believe in a hell for some folks, but it’s all or nothing. I can’t believe I’m hungry already, though I don’t know what time it is. I want to read the news, but I can feel the waves of no already surging. I think I’ve had this before. I want to know if you can look for so long that the door opens and the mirror flips and you fall in love with the world because you finally see the two of you are literally the same. I worry that this is poetic nonsense. I worry that all my meditation, checking in, journaling, etc., are simply variations on sucking my thumb. I think that may be too far unless it isn’t. I think the thing would be to write this live with cameras pointed at the faces in the crowd so we could tabulate and adjust in real time. I wonder if this is all a way to overwrite the memory of showing mom a poem when I was 13 and she looks as the speaker rushes through sharp, close dangers, and, on the many spears of the trap of the last lines, is impaled, and dies, smiling, and that’s nice dear.