having purged my system of the new

I embrace knowingness

a container of light and sound and ideas

and reverberations

a responder, a synthesizer

a soft machine with inherent computing errors

my miscalculations are my joys and they are my sorrows


design nothing and breathe

a steaming musical exhale

moves in all directions and knows just what it is to be

pluck the brain’s nuanced sectors like

pizzicato written on the inside of your eyelids while you sleep

articulate like the many small hammers inside

the ribcage of your great-grandmother’s piano

engage in plinking and plodding improv next to a fire which

plans less and does it with more grace


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