for Lewis Freedman
ok so let there be a pedal point, in thought a sustained tone that other thoughts can come and go
gutbucket back to thread and thread to fiber
spirit of the shack
i tell Lewis “well i also want something other than time” & then wonder,
did i write a poem by doing it?
the myth of the end of the world is a big stupid tree
let me be both record and instrument, flame and felicity, realize only now the weird perfume this thinking’s dowry
—i woke up in the bathtub all like—
why push away a barge whose already proximity a gift
in the blue mouth of drifting constantly upwards
honestly what are poets even talking about i mean i love us but
no the end no the world no the
carbon surround threading an aurelia of after which not
geobarricade a heap of mattresses smoldering obscenity settles
but also just as a very incoherent person who sometimes needs to be loved
wrap it up i’ll take it