some would call it relentless whining, but i choose to think of it as recycling, what i do here on restless mouth. the topics i examine over and over with the staleness of fixation, reteaching myself to hold onto my first love, to rechronicle and rerechronicle pain black as a prepubescent's ballpoint ink, and in the simplest of all possible terms--colors, things that don't hang together, conceits resembling badly-jointed furniture.
and i read ginsberg's chronicles of his everyday, his autoerotic travels and his visions, and so much joy, so much incisive, every line scissor-cut with love, accepting himself as--hell, striving to be--outside the grid, and he writes with joy he doesn't understand.
but i'm passing, and it matters to me--matters that i don't make my difference a thing of uncomfort for anyone else, matters that i keep it as private as a sore in a lightless place. and so i prowl around behind words, throwing the same ones at the same subjects. i write with words i don't understand, though, and subjects i don't understand. and i never understand them any better.
i just
throw farther.