Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Friday, January 23, 2015

2:00 AM. Insomnia blossoms over me:

—an obnoxious, heavy-petaled flower, honeysweet odor, large faced. From nowhere, it leans over me. Persistent, frustrating.
The idea itself transformed to something else—the fractures, I mean, taking on a life of their own, as small animals,— no longer the same idea.
After a day of mist, rain, clouds, suddenly: the sun, setting in the west. Blinds the eye with even just a casual glance of confirmation.
My reading list overwhelms me this week. The pile of books on my nightstand—and the row of novels in my e-reader—make me self conscious of the time passing.

      as a tree of grackles, crackling against the sun
With the weekend approaching, will need to re-establish the list of reading.
Of course, I should formalize the process of creating these short, fragmented lines. Document the chains of connection between the numerous splinters of thought. (My notebook grows fat with ideas. Content with words.) In the sense that I should defend the use of Twitter as a resource for building a poem. The collection as a tree of grackles, crackling against the skin. Against the sun. Splicing nuts and diving pebbles among themselves. The tree is my notebook. Many leaves. (Pardon the obvious pun.) The sum of the parts making up the whole image.

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