I think about whether real relation has a place in writing. Whether it is work to say these things like we’ve been saying them all along. Like all we were thinking were these things that needn’t be said and are and are also so so beautiful and arranged and un worked and whether it is natural to write or not. To be as you were saying, as in some humor, as in “this” is the place I made with my thoughts, I live here. Here putrid uselessness glued on the poetry. Going “after” it. Feel the always backward pleasure of reading my writing and tying it inside my head. Making/eating it. Make/eat/sleeping it. Bedding it down. Buggy bed. The insane always-ness of poetry Combust! The often unframed arrangement poetry arrangement that has not yet made it into writing, that is probably better that way. Push Push Push.