What my new room gains in space it loses in storage space, and I am now surrounded with objects that I own all around me on the floor. I'm having to sort through them all. I'm finding things that aren't even mine. But it's all sort of meditative, sort of.
This used to be the cat owner room, and now the cats like to come in like they own the room too, and I don't own the room but neither do they and I own most of the stuff. So I kick them out.
Here's a poem about iambixxx. You could say a lot of things about this idea. Nevertheless, day five came easier.
untitled (Controls #8?)
When something presses
so down it becomes
fulcrum, bones like bird bones,
the hollow center, the lover’s foot. Greenery unfurls
in spite of it, longer than intent
is walkable. Watching
the heel in front of you, which is covered by several
layers of thin and thick material. I would,
yes, if you asked me, but I don’t write this
to wax sexy about all ends of the body,
beautiful though they become
with time and with the right motive. I don’t
write to say please climb
with me into the foothills forever,
sink down to the anklebones with me
in the swamp forever.
Forever is a one-man show,
concentration, the brow and all
that churn, and I
am writing only small
and urgently: don’t waste
your tears any more on the wicked
hand, when someone stands
on these splendid things.