from Postcard toward compersion
…“Je est un autre,” oh boy you said it. And that’s the difference between wildfires and blowtorches, and I can’t rage the way I used to. And that’s the difference between Rimbaud and me, is that I know the slow burn, the controlled, managed conflagration is just one of the ways our rationale allows the senses to maintain despite all manner of derangement….
from Postcard toward a picture of sprezzatura
…And we writhe letters into skin instead of typing, de-composing a straight, an upright spine. And every word or where a word might go is the conclusion of a civilizing we are wringing from our bodies together. And now we are up to our necks in each other, and all we know is yes and oh yes and ffffuck….
from Postcard toward a transmogrification
…Should I worry so much about what goes through my head? What about my lungs or belly, the in and out? Will I wolf it down? Will I parrot not knowing? Should I tortoise myself in lead? This skin ready-made to scar is the motionless passages of metamorphosis, from the first fabrication of the fictionized I to the many of beasts will I be this hour….