The poet is a procrastinator. He goes out of his way to find other things to put his mind to. The poet knows everything else he does isn’t pursuant to his ultimate goal, which isn’t really his anyway. It’s just something he’s found himself stuck to, like a freak second head you’re forced to converse with and for which you then become too attached to destroy.
The poet makes every effort to deceive himself, anything to convince his ego that it’s okay
to think about something
Teddy found something in himself it would have been impossible not to find. It is as though what he became, what he would become, was part of him all along. But it’s not like beating you over the head with it is going to make you any more keenly aware of the fact that I didn’t really write anything fiction here, for Teddy and his story. I’ve always been much too narcissistic for anything of that sort. I simply wrote myself into another character’s skin, as it withers and sags
The days, as of late, have been filling up more—all the while these words beckoning to me, tugging at my arm, begging me to pursue. Teddy may be in Excelsis, but his existence remains mere fiction of mine, his life my satire. But what then is said of the satirist? How is he to come to terms with the limitations of his dimension? Of the many seasons forever unknowing—looking longingly at the stars, wondering if just to exist is knowing enough—the poet still only pours his hear
It’s been several days since a useful thought has come to me. More of the same old shit spewing from my brain. Sigh, fetter, waste. This is what happens when your best friend is a harmonica and your digital devices consume more of your time, energy, and love than actual people. I went to the Apple store twice today! Had to park in Santa Monica twice today! Had to feed my digital addiction—though I will say technology has eradicated most of my remaining excuses. There’s pretty