rote

I want to own words. I read something I like and I want to possess it.

What do I mean by it? The physical object that is the book? This version? A copy? Transcribed onto the screen painstakingly, or into a notebook whose pages I never revisit?

This is why I mourn the loss of of memory. My incapacity to soak up words so they're indelible once they've entered my mind.

Think of all the poems I could have farenheited into myself. Who would I introduce myself as? Which poem would you be? What would exchange make of us as people?

[coming up, in a day or two, a post on the library at Innerpeffrey].

My crystal, your mud

The road between clarity and obscurity is paved with the refractive indices of words.

back to this

• no milk. late coffee.
• no yellow carpet of tababuia. 
• bigger mangoes
• the jerul greening my window
• red and blue postcard of gods in their dream time and the promise of feet to come
• reading copy of book two in bestselling series (more later)
• unbelievable amount of mail i don't intend to read and a choking feedreader.

What else have I missed?