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