Reasonable conduct is part of the ordinary course of things.
Also violence, though one must resist this. Death is only life
at one remove, hanging from a metal hook, wrapped around
with tissue paper and a forty long and waves of sound
and waves of light and graduating waves. The small engines
meant for this, meant to slide electrons of the universe
about their electronic grid, are us. If I try to see it, I see it
as a version of one of those gridded puzzles with a piece
missing, where you move a piece up and across and down,
and so on, to try and make a picture, but in this case
there is no picture to aim for, and the puzzle is at least 3D.
The puzzle itself is the picture, you are the gap, an instance
of peckishness or nausea of flames or lilies or bathwater.
Also quickened with touches of transporting grief and love.
I hold mine out now in front as a black single-breasted suit
I inspect to check that it is suitable for wearing to the funeral.
I am slapping dust from its shoulders. If we're so suspicious
of meaning, Dragos, that's because meaning has, historically,
had very hard edges. The point remains however: it is to be
the other, not to reiterate how I am not you, and never can be.
I know that already, but I get up in the morning and break
fast. I am still burning toast. I am taken with the possibilities
of radical formal shifts and tonal ambiguities. And I require
ceremony to practice ending properly. I know if you made me
dwell on it long enough I could feel bad about the death
of that clothes moth that just fluttered out from the suitbag.
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