To abandon oneself to writing itself. To let the continual
flow of writing be its own scene.
There’s too much to do today that gets in the way.
The writer as the one who reads and edits.
The words come from some other space.
They arrive like letters, like the words we speak in anger or in infatuation or in reason or in love.
You become your own reader. You’re the one who says “It’s over. It’s only just begun.”
Hours to go
Writing, thought, as the irruption or folding of pure interiority.
Writing without misplacement: all paper is anxiety
All sheets an opportunity to be lost, misplaced;
one more chance again
to trip oneself up
The publisher returns the unconventional, pop-lyric styled poems as the issue has fallen through but you can’t help read his email with mixed feelings of relief and frustration. Has he finally read them now even though after first submission he said that he loved them? Why not hold them back for the next issue? Or has he really not received any submissions at all. The returns back to the question of “who is reading?” and the uncertain status of an audience for anyone less than a major league poetry player. Are we all just reading our own work in these journals? I think of a more avant-garde publication to send the poems to but I know that I need to return back to the manuscript to struggle with it once again to reach its almost final form. .It’s as it is without ambition; tired. That moment when emotions clear.