Everything is an experiment. There is nothing that is not an experiment. I ate eggs and spinach for dinner––that was an experiment.
Spectral forms coalesce and dissolve on corners of avenues, and squares, and streets. I saw myself everywhere as a way of seeing you. Fourteen people sit on chairs inside an only-sometimes room.
You changed. Clothes. I took my medicine. Holding a green bag.
“I come here to write,” I think. As I love a friend I hate the words I’ve inherited. I resent the forms and styles that make my age. I long for something pure and simple. I don’t want and, just marks upon.
I am going to jump into the lake because I need to learn about myself. Myself in the lake is one of infinitely many selves and I figure I must start somewhere. I am seeing you everywhere. I am souring on truth. Danger. I am going to kill myself by jumping in the lake. There is no know, only knew. I sigh as I write this. I eliminate the medicine. I don’t know how to spell in the lake. The distances between intention and action are multiple. Not plural. Multiple. And moving. I am going to jump into multiple lakes. I am moving as I write this. “I am unmoored,” I felt. There is no know, only knew. I will only ever be a soluble substance in this milky blue world. “She is breathing,” you think. Everyone is looking toward the surface.
A trumpet player blows up. All that hot air.
When I use my eyes to write I become a house.
My high school senior quote was: Barn’s burnt down, now I can see the moon. A Mizuta Masahide quote. I don’t even remember where I found it. Some things are only ever appearing before your particular eyes. Like these marks.
There is no know, only knew. A trumpet player with a wife wears a snap-button cardigan and ankle-high Nike sneakers. I am writing yet. She breathes as air breathes. I peel off mid-stream red. The trumpet player’s wife waits with solemnity in their burning house. An entire city disintegrates. We live and die everyday. We’re not ready to show you. I don’t know if you deserve it.
There is no know, only knew. I worry it may be a symptom of dementia, or insanity, to see a face in a face. To wish for presence amidst all this tumbling absence. My hands caress the map. “Do not confuse the map for the terrain,” the female monk says. She sees me with actual eyes as I try my very best to sit still.
-
I don’t want you anymore
I’m still in love with you anymore
I’m trying a new approach anymore
I don’t am in psychoanalysis anymore
You work a probably-lovely job anymore
I find you in one moment anymore
In one moment I want you in no moments
I take your picture
We experiment with Each Other.