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Saturday, April 21, 2018

Ongoing Story

The pen is beautiful
only when the hand

is certain, which is
the reason a professor

describes my early work
as anti-narrative. The

question of whether
I am still a part of

my early work
operates within the

frame of anti-narrative
because it supposes

simultaneous space
simultaneous time

a coterminous mapping
of events in which

I can say with certainty
that poetry has entered

its bona fides into
the discussion of

narrative only
insofar

as we understand the
novel to be a series

of plots that inform
a larger narrative. I

can say this and the
same woman wakes

up old day after
day, and sits in front

of the winestore
for my narrative

pleasure. In truth, I
distrust the novel as

one relies on a franchise
to pretend one kind

of fragility over an
other. I have dreamed

there are cysts all
over my body, and while

I believe this evinces
worthwhile cause

to see the doctor, I
understand this is an

example of the dysfunction
of the anti-narrative life

I have purportedly
broached. But if I

schedule an appointment
and put as my reason

for visit, My body sends a distressing message to my dreams
and dreams are an extension of the body, this proves

I am a very narrative person. I watch a little girl almost
drop a shoe from a balcony. She holds it with a grin

threatens the dream cysts inside me like the scientists
who discovered interstitium, a form of narrative in which

a contiguous fluid-filled space moves between skin and body
organ. The dream cyst nests behind my ear and she smiles. We

look at each other. She drops the shoe to her brother who has
been below her the whole time. Throw the other shoe, we scream

up. Throw the other

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