at your birthday dinner, you are twenty four, we eat at the dead fish. i eat dead
fish. on the menu are other dead. there are some live salads. they live in my
belly as i go to tie up the strings of my day. searching for a thread running
through a river, i'm hot, it's hot, my belly is full, i'm walking and braiding time.
come, there is much to be done. & what a time to believe in anything.
these are words that occur often in my brain but have not been laid
out in the pipework of letters. sometimes my friend carries a great
sadness towards me and i am flooded with it, valley and trunks and all.
it seems there is nothing to be done but grow thirstier. but seeming is
not believing. i read on august thirtieth to bite through all my problems.
when god gives hard bread he gives sharp teeth. when i bite my tongue
it is demons dancing. when he bites me it's a longing towards marrow. every
thing does not want to be bitten, not even the moon. but lo, with what grace, eaten
and eaten again by that blazing darkness. i will grow, i will grow, i will drown.