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Thursday, April 5, 2018

Figure for Cabin Fever

 Though this winter’s no different in its blanketing insistence, it feels particularly interminable--even malicious in its usurpations--because fascism. Which, like winter, was a long time coming. Is it the billboard’s message obstructing the vista or its figure. Was that a question or a statement? I am either twinned or cleaved behind the horizon’s censor bar in silhouette and the what next--though always somehow not at all surprising--its own brand of terror with a capital T. As if cursed in a fractal politics, the spats that burst open in our little hot house like insane flowers must bear something of the confusion of the despot’s house. This morning’s fracas featured a blue owl dress that would not do dress, a catalogue of sounds evincing exasperation, and a brief lecture on the patriarchy that was so dickish, I felt like wretching after delivering it. And they say the worst of winter is yet to come, when the stelled dunes and crystallizations dissolve into the trash they hide. I steal time to read The Skaters and think about the process of figuration. “Everything is trash!” the poet in the pineapple shirt writes. Every day a stanza! I have trouble getting to the poem when I think the poem is somewhere else, I write from this mess because I’m forgetful

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