back in the place of forming, wonder how it is that i came from this. bark, moss, centipede, ice. these are the things that make me.
pictures . some words
a soft touch. i spent six months searching for what was obvious from the start. joke’s on me, haha. the hard on the outside is softening up, i’m mush. where did he begin and i start and absorbed into a personality so featureless. to extract the despised…
stick the knife in and twist. to feel pain is better than to feel nothing? confirmation of repeating patterns. lance a boil, bandage the cut. can’t cry, clown will eat me. puerile poetry pounces on pity. to write is to read is to right is to reed. burns…
I am really a woodcarver
and my words are love
which willfully parades in
its room refusing to move.
“Poem,” Lunch Poems, Frank O’Hara, 1960