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.>