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Monday, April 3, 2017

What Do You Remember About Each Day?



And where I thought to go, it wouldn’t take me there. Let me explain. Certain

areas respond to their elements and in this response, become the elements. I

had a dream for my misery, I did. I put the items of my misery in a sac and then

I named the sac a pretty name. A name like Buckskin, because this is a beautiful

word, because it can mean both the shell of an animal and a different animal all

together, and isn’t that misery. I mean, the ability to contain the heft of life and

breed a body of incredible speed? And so in my buckskin, I considered an inventory,

one in which there is no country, no definitive lines. That my misery would have

borders, lord knows it does not, and so the kingdom therein rustles with every

flesh and fiber I might lose. I read that microfiber, what makes fleece and polyester

so smooth, is colorful plastic and the plastic threads off in the washer machine

and drains with the water, eventually into the ocean. I agree that this is terrible—

yes the world is ending—but I am stuck imagining the conduit of water, how water

always finds the ocean, regardless of what it carries with it. In this way, I wonder

if the sac should be made of microfiber, because the poet’s insistence to write is

another way we hurt the world, bleeding its trees into pages or its pages into smaller

pages, the glue that holds it together. And I suppose my desire to be held together

is as toxic, whether it is also part of my desire to have a book, to be read in a lap

or have my book enjoyed in a bath. Water drains and a bit of you goes with it, into

the ocean. I like to think the fish are full of us and do not care for our tastes, as in

I stand somewhere long enough and no matter how I’ve suffered, the wind takes

my odors and sails them elsewhere. The capitalism that keeps my body together

becomes an annihilating breeze until it is simply a nice feeling through another

complete body. And where I thought to go, in this case east, is just more west.

The traffic lights tick with robotic authority. I wait in the rain safe in my buckskin—

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