sometimes when i think about poetry its fragility disgusts me and i want to kill it.
sometimes if it is strong poetry i resent its strength and want to kill it too, sometimes even more.
sometimes i am a healthy person and i just love what is good for being good, and i love what is bad because it is also worthy of love, like the hind parts of the lord that become visible to somebody in the book of genesis, i forget who.
sometimes when i think about every delicate thing i love and the violence inside me against all delicacy i want to kill myself.
sometimes when i think about the tenderness between people and the idea of the gold standard and the idea of the money system and this western idea that without money we would all be ugly lazy hippies with bad art and boring ideas i just want to sit down and then lie down and die.
and then die some more.
i love poets so much. they are the center of the heart of the world. they are free, and they are doomed, and they make the world possible, and it breaks my heart over and over and over.
and i want to live in a world in which art does not exist, in which every made thing and each thing sung and done is absolutely and totally a devotion to god and to the world and to the divine, eternal spirit that i absolutely know exists.
sometimes i think i love people so much i can’t stand it, and i wish i didn’t, and then i don’t, and my heart shrinks to the size of a pea, and then i split that pea.
here i am with a split pea in my left hand.