Sunday, March 6, 2011


I dreamed a dream where I could write poems without it taking so much out of me, but it was just a dream. Likewise, I am drawn to the experience of where the doing and knowledge of doing come together. The location of this experience or understanding is at the apex of a slender curve. I must be rested and more or less confident in my life to find this place, which is after all interior. I cannot be unique, and so this place is interior to us all, though I must suppose it goes by different names. I am uncertain of what is interesting, however intriguing, and so continue on toward what I hope will be true, even as I fall, again and again, out from my understanding. I pull my life about me, I settle my affairs - it may take hours, days, weeks or months - and set out again. I write in form in blank recognition that I am a form of a man writing in the form of poetry. In the act of writing in form - in the act - I feel like I am in physical correspondence with the location of which I speak, where the doing and the knowing are nearly as one.

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