WE WILL learn to grow fond of ourselves, along with that old, stable, soaking wind beating into ears in late winter. i seem to grow overly accustomed to words reproducing from the hands-- multiplying and forcing them on paper or lines. i have become enthralled with creativity, producing anything that merges words into structures, whether they be tiny morphing dividers in place of a wall or strong concrete paving the street.
THESE DAYS it has been stream of consciousness without much of a consciousness. i believe i have drifted from attached emotion into a single drop of creativity that i squeeze out of myself. almost as if bleeding out of my toes, i
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