November 20, 2010

Concerning P90X

rain again. thoughts drop, splatter. dripping sliding streaking against windows, meeting panes. on the reverse a fitness video reflects my fears that i am unfit. unfit for this. pull the shades. stop the thought-pattern my face with sunken circles, flush with cheekiness and call it a night.

November 19, 2010


3:42/ there are scraps and i am attempting to assemble something near meaning, something profound. but i'm not sure that exists anymore. i've been reading journals, making notes.
3:43/ i cannot picture my work within the context of the greater writing community. i see the work of others, i see it parallel to mine but yet the strings are too frayed to make a connection (on my end of course). where are the intersections? chaos? Cole says that's where her writing comes from. but they all say that in one way or another i suppose. stating poetics reminds me of the humidifier of my sickly youth: all blasting vapors and drops then nothing but deep breathing.
3:54/ how is one to do this? how is one to place a value on their passion by sending it out to the assessment of others? does it cease to be passion when it is brought forth from the secure pages of red blanks books, typed, spell-checked, addressed, then sealed up until opened by judging hands (wrought with paper cuts and coffee stains)?
4:00/ i've been obsessed with time lately. checking the clock over and over, several times daily (more than is normal i feel).
4:01/ i keep trying to retrace the steps in my mind to uncover how i ended up here: six stories up in a bare office, broke, exhausted, fragmented somewhere within the penumbra of...what i can't say. the instinct is to blame responsibility, parental control and ambition, but i don't remember making that many concessions and i can't say that i've ever been good with decisions.
4:05/ it is dark here but i don't want to go home. trains under water frazzle my nerves and pale my knuckles uncomfortably. across the bay there is just more work but of a personal nature. applications piled on nightstands and shards of poetry-laden paper stick to my sheets.
4:06/ what do they want? where to go?
4:07/ i dread the mailbox and drink Red Zinger tea, quoting the boxes under my breath. i stare at the stains the leaves have left on the sidewalk though i know not when: season-less place.
4:10/ i want to buy things i can't afford and go to the grocery store but the shifting shape of my flesh...
4:12/ i want to be in ruins. i want the luxury of a drug habit or a psychotic break but that sounds worse on paper than it does in my head.
4:14/ the progression won't travel in reverse and this,
4:20 / this is inertia.