I’m being forced to sleep. It’s like being locked in a tower of
bone. I feel I must write, but am being flooded with so many subjects,
personal mythology, that I cannot choose. Dying, I am locked in my own
ivory cage. Transcendence into the fire.
Out there and in daylight, there is a girl at home.
She can write.
I was talking with Bill today and at one point I told him that
everyone has been giving me different pieces to fix my life with.
(Though what it needs fixing from is beyond me to know). I said, “To
everything, Ian says I need a tazer, Dominique says I need sex, and
Sophie says I need to go over and make her Sangria.”
This binary ink is not helping. These words are dripping wrong from my fingers.
inspire me to poetry so that i may rest