but always with the pieces.
Piles of information
from conversations dating back
to the spring of '91.
Pieces;
like they're a thought that stands alone.
Pieces;
it suggests that everything will be pieced back
together.
Pieces;
this is how I remember it now.
My records are
Highlights and underlines
and low lights.
Sometimes no lights.
Everything in shorthand, the shortest hand
shorter than a flea circus stands above the ground.
I have kept a professional record of every conversation
and I have been the opposite of professional.
An Anti-professional.
The original Anti-thought.
Anti-Anti-Anxiety.Anti-Matter Inflamatory.
The Anti-Gravity Example.
Unable to keep the track from bending.
And always derailed by these unneeded poetics,
dressing up the few and far
spaces as ghosts between worlds,
or something mundane as impossibly important.
I'm losing track of time, shoving metaphors in envelopes
I'm some ******* who thinks art is everywhere