Six Dumb Words


Making early
the coffee
If I hurry maybe I’ll make Boulder late tonight. I don’t feel in a hurry. But maybe, if I start to, I can be with the poets. I’m about halfway through a first pass of your pomes so they’re hanging around like unfinished novel in my sleepier hours. I meant to wake & write a six word poem and found news of more dead on the people’s day–when the fireworks late make to like celebrate the heads off the french aristocracy (tis not an unviolent thought to begin)–across the ocean. What good are my six dumb words? There is a struggle going on somewhere & everywhere & not anywhere for the end of all struggling, & I suppose this may mean death. & I hope that it means life. But most I think the poetic of shower masturbation–the way you know if a poet tells you his habits regarding jerking off, he’s being straight with you, and if he tells you his habits of not even jerking off when it seems most honest, you know he doesn’t know where to go with all the honesty. Self-healing becomes sick-sounding. A list of hipster concerns, I’m not even with me. The yearning for better questions, the right questions, the ones that will actually heal somebody somewhere, & not just display the contours of political allegiances. But you put yourself in the fray in some forward way, & I don’t know what I mean by this. The “struggle” & how the sound of that word at this moment to me is like two men in the dark gripping one another by whatever seems will kill. How the struggle is still the sickness. How the antibody & the fever may themselves kill. And how a stupid six words about the coffee & the road, how can these not be delightful in their insufficiency to address even one of the ills that plunge us to our troubled depths? Man & unman.
& I think you at least are there, where it’s happening, making a record of the human soul as it most earnestly yearns. As it finds itself blanketing the gears of the machinery. As it were a child caught in them teeth.
& I am in this Cloud of Unknowing:  ‘…he alone understands the deep universal reason for sorrow who experiences that he is… He alone feels authentic sorrow who realizes not only what he is, but that he is … never does he desire to not-be, for this is the devil’s madness… he rejoices that he is…at the same time, he desires unceasingly to be freed from the knowing and the feeling of his being.’
& I wish I could have thought about the coffee & the road & that would have been enough.

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