It is the longest month of the year: late February.
I made a tunnel into my bed, to a story about how we were born inside a transparent sphere.
Slowly this sphere filled with stuff.
Then the stuff circulates.
I’ve learned how it is useless to write about failure, better just to enact the trying part, over and over.
Better to seek revenge with nails out, lumpy with stick-on pearls.
But here I am. All unable.
Failure: a porous feeling—secret minerals moving in and out of the invisible surfaces.
Failure: when you drop something and your body plummets with it.
I am looking–
To understand the things that happened, cut into it, and struggle with it, without laying blame which outlived its usefulness.
To set usefulness aside, then to pick it up with a different light on my face.
To be saturated in an unforgiving sunlight.
Tender was the saturation.
I tell myself to be a political thinker and wring the water from my chest.
I unscrew my body from its cringing why.
I spread out on the deck of my bed.
The acidic butter of thinking, we spread.
Yum, the butter.
To be a strong butter.
To be your alien thought, a scum on the ocean, that makes it right.
Thus greasy I look to you, I must stop looking to you.
Pick the body off the floor, back to the deck where the salt has settled in piles.
Go from the big blockade to the small blockade and back again.
Why have you come back here, only to go away again?
Are some of the reasons hurtful but necessary?