I’ve been polishing for a very long time;
when I walk I feel around the edges
and push at walls hoping to bruise
through to insulation I can work with,
or at least observe and imitate and stuff
inside my cracks like a reversed blanket.
The insides are evasive to touch, though,
so I resort to waking late into an
up-and-at’em-ness fury that folds
each day into a half-life, increments
at which I jab sweaty one-two combos
because the earth and moon are rocks
constantly shifting around me, forever.
I wish could outline for you the process
I use to discover, among other things,
primordial words and images where none
were previously thought to exist, but:
there is no science here, just structures
that radiate whispers from their worlds
of plumbing and anti-gravity flows,
wireless named after a kid called Gui,
and good bread and good butter too
that fuel the punches, the endless shuffle.
LOCATION: Porto Alegre, Brazil – Writing first thing in the morning with French-press coffee, French bread, and some local butter in a white container.
