We are all ghosts. But my definition for ghosts is changing.

The love trunk, are rattlers, are rhythm climbers. I love triple en-ten-drays.

8.6.23

Going to try to switch instagram journaling about writing over to here. Its becoming unhelpful over there. I take notes while writing.

I dont dislike the people really. Its not that. Its that they are all video. Might say I learned how to journal on instagram. Daily hail, of my writer, takes out, kiter.

Notes sprung up there. Used it, dynamically, to examine and remember who and what am digging through. I take notes while writing, so maybe I can see through what I am doing.

Navel lob bot a me.s. Thats a joke. I like mildly “sick” jokes. Releases the carnage.

I dont want to be silly. But nonsense is a big part of rhyme. So many areas became stricken. By the quick and the dead.

More and more am going behind a paywall here. Thank you!

And trying to set up sections better, between essays, which are mostly a kind of chronica about other poets, writers and language, often engendering a kind of shorthand. And what is freewriting driven, feeeobeee of the freewriting.

My work, I am informed. Is very uneven. With spots of poetry that steals any rhyme to get to the next jump. That are sometimes repetitive and skippy. Like a barking puppy. Until I dig through to see if anything is behind it.

Do you write in animalia, do you count up how many heads on Sirus. Fiction writers —

My wind mill are Dante flirters, are cached with him. in re: heaven and hell. Dante wrote poetically, in the Italian he is a poem. Like Milton… Their stink is on me!

The way I write is contemporary. I think. Due to influences Joyce and Clarice Lispector. But what I write about are entertained in bail outs on rhetoric gorge rummy (due to Beckett’s help really) and religious piss woozy wuss whizz, stunned at punny bunny (in bebeland).

Narrative has got sweetness. But its increasingly wet all over. Its angry, cupid stupid, and damp. But methinks a fairly capable rhymer.

I believe writing is a form of love. My worst poems are love poems. Crunchy and pounding through syllables, graven, and torrid about dis missing them, sounding love into a death mask. Love is everywhere. But turns on itself like a fire, a sacrificial incendiary. My chars are all angelic, sullen and shocked into the shithouse. So far. Yes I have a thing for Ezra.