Thursday, August 24, 2006

wHORLS aND kENNELMATES*

I slept 48 seconds last night, maybe 9. I awoke in a hurry, maybe faster. My hair is a mess, whorls and kennelmates of peat, maybe fen. I have a wooden rooster on my transistor radio, maybe it works, maybe it confuses static with music. I am reading Julio Cortazar’s Blow-Up And Other Stories, maybe Finnegan’s Wake. I have made my bed, maybe I haven’t, not yet. I have a hanging plant, maybe two. I have already started to count, to count, to recount and count. I am counting, maybe not, maybe I think I’m counting when I am not, not yet at least. I am a Turing Machine, maybe.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz