i’ve never been able to see the point of emptying one’s mind of thought.  my  thoughts are all i have.  i love my thoughts, even when they take me up and down some sour smelling byways where i’d rather not venture.  whatever flickers on in my head is mine and i want it, all the blinking impulses and inclinations and connections and weirdness, and especially those bright purple flares that come streaming out of nowhere, announcing that i am at some mystic turning point and that i’d better pay attention.

a morning and an afternoon and 

night’s queer knuckled hand 

hold me separate and whole 

stitching tight my daily soul