witness is not an act of art, and i think i know why: because everyone is the center of his or her own world.
trying to resist that centrality is about as smart as i am in general. we can't live for anyone else as we can't see for anyone else.
so what's left is something like feeling, or empathy, the thingee of the scapegoat. the identification of coming into some work's world, being invited in, and then finding, like magic, that foothold provided...
but witness itself is not an act of art.
i want to get out of this blah blah shadows.
memory so excitingly laced with fantasy. it's impossible to escape one's own body
and still remain in time (aka alive)
so acceptance
being the only path
owning the bath of lard and shit
that is my experience
and sowing seeds within it
so that when that bath-full ballsack of bad composts itself
i can finally be a poet
and pluck some fucking roses.
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