I am always confusing symbolism for othering.

Nothing else was evident other than this scratching, an estranged you from a strange me.  It’s a new month, but still I leave mugs of tea on counters.  Absurdity is the linear equation and continually balancing each side.  I am always confusing thirst with desire or fall with fell.  There is no reason to believe that today is going to be different.  So I read Lacan, no I read Foucault, no I read an analysis of Foucault and hold a pencil close to my eye.  Even as I am writing this I tread on the cuffs of my pants.  My head feels filled with your words, like beautiful arrows.  I know I can’t distinguish between an allergic reaction and a bacterial infection.  There is no point to beginning if there is no breaking.  On the run we are in a red van.  Can you make the connection?

<This poem opens a collaborative series written with Steven Karl.>