When love bangs on the door I check to make sure it's double-locked. No risk of joy today. There's a frail line between sitting leisurely with your calves dipped in the clean blue of the pool and staring up from the tiled bottom, water-dazed and low on oxygen. Five minutes without oxygen and you end up with permanent brain damage. That's the moral of this story. The other moral is that I would like to immortalize the arc of the moment and never talk to you again. Keep the energy, escape the trials of plot. Deleuze: “Life is not personal." Life is impersonal—life is immoderately personal—emotion can be examined at a remove only after having been experienced up close. Why can't I write when I'm not terrified? Archie Moore: “I ride my fear like a fast horse." I'm reading Chris Kraus, reading Maggie Nelson, reading Kathy Acker, reading Eileen Myles, reading Mary Ruefle, thinking about how porous things become between me and the world when I'm thinking about you. Everything is liquid, fecund: a zoo of possibility filled with daffodils, blueberry edibles, parrots in greenhouses, bright red coveralls, the distinction between truth and knowledge, spring in Park City, dilapidated swan boats, your palm in downward swing a millisomething before connecting. In Alamo I place my hand on your neck to indicate the desire for yours on mine. Li Po: "Writing poetry is like being alive twice."
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