things in the mouth, it is march.

2 March 2007


Bajo,

With them, I have been holding the hand of them, these things. Writing, and structures of “language” that at one time were solid, full of permanent seclusion. There is an enlightening quality to the story of books, though with every marble of knowledge a section of me wishes to turn back, to clothe myself in the lightness/heaviness whatever it was that he concluded was worse. Might there ever be an author who can include awareness for every social politic and still be grace and juice, and I mean with form as well, I mean to contain accessibility while, being…well you know the rest.

In the mouth, the things in the mouth, there is a good one, so good. Here, good one, I have been on the phone often, advantages to distance, and pain to distance. Bridges and rain on another end, visits and children, I don’t want to have children on bridges. Often, have you understood yet the collection of silently entering home’s. I fear I will only ever enter silent when love waits, carpets moving, windows waking, I don’t ever change calendars, something is good, tell me to be good, a good one.

Against my better judgment, I title, even somewhat comfortable quicker labels. Its been two plus two equals four divided by two equals two, this is three two’s, I indulge in simple math to remember dates, simply.

I will not be buried here, deciding a highway to scatter, a cliff to call a nest, of course you have heard of Isabel’s Hawks, and the division necessary for all of her children. She says simply foretelling words, and I am an attack of panic on Pearl Street, powers of mothers who tell their daughter they soon will be as well. Tell me to be good, a good one, repeat, don’t repeat. What will I write now that there are significantly less questions, the ones left not desperately needing answers, merely the questioning questions that I know are purely the disease crawling into my steamboat, telling me to not watch the water roll on off the round with too much sentimentality.

So to the one that waits and thinks nothing there, to the empty collision in the inside, good one, there is a good one, to the good one choosing is the collision, and while amateur I wish to assign a color season sense body part to all work, a lens if you, good one, could lower yourself to name it so. Titles can be entertaining, they can hold the sliver of memories, the ones on the tip of whatever it was you felt in the moment of recollection, the tip we good ones call it, brain or tongue, the things in the mouth collecting in a “good” taste, remember this title in simple math, my very very good one.


-Caridad