Not enough time to reflect on things.. I mean to get back to my notes of Friday’s reading with Kenny G. And movies movies. And a trip to Rockford that quenched a need to see a little more sky/expanse/universe. My reading last night on the one year anniversary of the ruinous hard drive crash.. the poems that have been made since, and since the fall and since losing other things. J asserted last night that all art is a process of dealing with mortality. Is getting closer to this- experiencing it more concretely- the cause of “maturation” in an artist’s work? Why in my twenties all I wanted to read was writing by others in their twenties? And now I want to read is.. no logic there. I’ll read anything. But preferably something with a sense of something being at stake. What does that mean? Time to leash my lyrical power animal? My inner “methodist” aesthete says no. Reading my new poems at people was more instructive than before. I alarmed myself by doing some on-the-spot editing as I read. That called out the parts to me that still have bumps. But I’m in this process for the bumps, bumps and all..so? Most just need to be longer. Also, something nagged at me for orphaning the poems from the merzbau of this space. So I’m reading up on Schwitters today shrouded in a hangover which is the only occasion I will fetch a Dunkin Donuts egg and cheese croissant- its yellow ectoplasm equals a certain form of forgiveness.