2022/7/21 #poetry My job at the page is only to entertain myself. There isn't anyone else to take it in as I write. Perhaps later it might be read, maybe, but I might not even know it happened, and certainly don't know who it may be. But what about this is entertaining? It seems exquisitely familiar, as if I'm remembering something I read long ago rather than composing something new. Much of the writing feels that way though, and I wonder why.
2022/7/19 #poetry Bags don't just carry things, they hide them. You might never know what is in someone's bag. There could be anything. They are similar to heads in that way. There could be some overlap, the items in the bag are probably also indexed in the head, at least partially, and there could be something, such as a notebook, which holds more of what may be in the head.
2022/7/18 #poetry I don't actually know what the possibilities are. There are too many. Anyone could grasp a few, but how would they know if they will come true? You might not worry, just pick a path, it's not rolling dice you'll always have another chance and a half. Habits matter, but big decisions, well, maybe, perhaps, it's so hard to tell.
2022/7/17 #poetry It's amazing how things, no matter how seemingly immutable, can change. I used to adore donuts. A shift in diet, years without them, a shift of the palate, those donuts aren't so appetizing. The memory of enjoyment still has some charm, but it doesn't fuel desire. It's good to know nothing's set in stone.
2022/7/16 #poetry Such a small sliver of a sliver of the whole that we can grasp in our mind that any one of us can know little constructs of logical consistency scaffolding to hold up our fragile bubbles of “reality” but don't despair & throw out your story making skills their social utility is enough to pay the bills