The Portal of Lost Wanting

POTD 280212 SCORE SANS NOIZE

i keep going fucking on and on about what i want, i mean in poetry and around poetry and in being a poet and going on and on about it as this hypothesis, and what this means of course is that it is always a hypothesis, AND HOW DARE YOU SPEAK OUT OF TURN AND i don’t even know why i’m here now.  i guess to say that POEM OF THE DAY, ill-named and rashly-conceived project, is sometimes more pain than i can bear.  this hypothetical world that i always am dreaming, does it mean that i am living a hypothetical existence?  is this appropriate in any space other than a revolutionary space?  is a hypothetical existence wasted if it is not stapled to a cause?  i staple myself to poetry, that is fine, i do not mind if i bleed.  but i’m not going to do it for a cause.  i’m going to do it for poetry.  fucking poem of the day.  language bleats among real touching.  although yesterday it made me feel practically royal.  language is a bleep among fucking.  who wants to feel royal.