from the outside world-object

this is a diary entry made slightly public:

i read a couple of the "places" poems (the edited versions--in case it's not obvious, this blog is where i write first drafts [i shouldn't, but something about the anonymity combined with the public-ness of blogging makes me feel, like, safe, maybe? and inspired?  does this mean i'm vain?]) yesterday, and people liked them.  i was not expecting that.  the only other reading experiences i've had have been mediocre at best--that one open mic when i looked up, after having read, at a sea of blank faces, and the workshop classes where i knew my stuff wasn't good enough.  but yesterday people were taking the writing seriously, and they liked it.  i don't quite know what to do with this information, but i'm grateful.

now if only i could figure out who will publish my 200 page book.  on the grounds that, if the stuff i read yesterday is decent enough for people to like, the stuff in the book is similarly decent, this is my question.

anyway.

i don't want to be a bother

there is no poem here and maybe there never were any poems and maybe there is no song either.  maybe everything will go away--could i resign myself to that?  yes, but it would nearly kill me.  or and--and it would nearly kill me.

there is no food i want to eat, no person i want to fuck, no way i want to be screwed by anyone.  there is no home-ware or pair of shoes i wish to buy--no book to read, no show to watch.  as a temple of self-indulgence, i have not been sated so much as glutted on the things i wanted.

and nothing is enough.  oh god nothing is enough.  there is no wall of flesh thick enough, no refulgence deep enough, no externality broad or real enough...there is no brokenness wide enough.  just a tide--just a tide coming in.  just a tide coming in.