what you know. You know nothing. Trying to know deeper. Essential be in it. Contrast between void and oblivion. One has motion. Am I moving? I haven’t moved in over a year, the room is my own. They hear me sneeze through the window. Separation made possible by bodies. I am blessed. Isolated, the least myself I can. Six feet above the dumpster. Bathrobe. Stones.

Skip a scrape knuckle across star ocean cities

Punching the mirror pastime activity

Blow on scars make a wish

I wish that I could get higher

 

I wish I could see the insides of your shit

 

I wish it was Tuesday night everybody else already asleep
Poets are my friends. We wait for what seems similar, instructions in envious patience and compassionate sleep. I never know who will die or kill, who might go sinister, who may be leaving who hasn’t had dinner. Chaos, sad ecstatic, loss, separation, rebirth, cost of doing business with magicians. Doubt and the absurdity of inspiration. What is asked? In confusion, action occupies the dominant position. I lay here wasted for hours, forever, call it accomplishment. Call it a day after a few more minutes. Do you believe what you are saying yeah sometimes like right now but not that often. Not anymore. Morning came, then evening, the Lord was pleased, it was convenient. Morning came, then evening, then afternoon, then evening, unsettled traffic. The poets may not have willed it but got absorbed in it and are still friends with goosebumps to show for it.

MATT CLIFFORD

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