i am drowning.
the work is becoming me.
i am not living
moment to moment
but task by task. my phone is
a long list of numbers and names,
and they all need me now,
now, now,
and yesterday and tomorrow,
but i rank them,
because life is a long
list of ranking and doing,
but the ranking is a chore
already, and i get tired,
my feet sink up to
the **** of my ankle,
and i'm no further ahead
than i was before,
the same spot, just
a few inches lower,
a few pounds heavier.
i am in no condition
to write.
so i smoke, i
let the spirit run
all through me,
and through him,
i find the second
mask of mine that
loves to write letters.
i am drowning
in letters.
the list swells,
shifts, squirms
in my hand.
every screen begs
me to write to it.
and everyone's got
a different medium,
language, favor,
passion and preference.
i am thanking and apologizing.
i am scheduling and dismissing.
i am losing steam trying to
wear all these hats; i
am sinking, i
am sinking, i am
sinking, i am sinking,
i am fifteen people at
once, all singing and
stepping on themselves,
i am so noisy, and grateful.
i am so sickeningly small.
i am drowning.
i am grateful. i
am swelling; i am
building an image;
i am becoming. it
is so uncomfortable.
it is night when i finally
sit to paint. these are the
things that sell and yet i
feel so much like a glass
jar already stuffed full
of change. nothing to
show for it yet though.
so i put the
ink in a big
circle on the
canvas and i
crawl inside it
and it is warm
and soft and
unforgiving
and it doesn't
expect a thing
from me but
color.
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 12:01 AM UTC
i am drowning.
the work is becoming me.
i am not living
moment to moment
but task by task. my phone is
a long list of numbers and names,
and they all need me now,
now, now,
and yesterday and tomorrow,
but i rank them,
because life is a long
list of ranking and doing,
but the ranking is a chore
already, and i get tired,
my feet sink up to
the **** of my ankle,
and i'm no further ahead
than i was before,
the same spot, just
a few inches lower,
a few pounds heavier.
i am in no condition
to write.
so i smoke, i
let the spirit run
all through me,
and through him,
i find the second
mask of mine that
loves to write letters.
i am drowning
in letters.
the list swells,
shifts, squirms
in my hand.
every screen begs
me to write to it.
and everyone's got
a different medium,
language, favor,
passion and preference.
i am thanking and apologizing.
i am scheduling and dismissing.
i am losing steam trying to
wear all these hats; i
am sinking, i
am sinking, i am
sinking, i am sinking,
i am fifteen people at
once, all singing and
stepping on themselves,
i am so noisy, and grateful.
i am so sickeningly small.
i am drowning.
i am grateful. i
am swelling; i am
building an image;
i am becoming. it
is so uncomfortable.
it is night when i finally
sit to paint. these are the
things that sell and yet i
feel so much like a glass
jar already stuffed full
of change. nothing to
show for it yet though.
so i put the
ink in a big
circle on the
canvas and i
crawl inside it
and it is warm
and soft and
unforgiving
and it doesn't
expect a thing
from me but
color.
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