the vivid dreams continue. my testicles are swollen. my jaw, my teeth, cramp and bleed.

i'm thinking about the ways in which my poems are constructed, because they are constructed, but not brick by brick but stacked slab on slab. each poem after the poem current is just an extension of poem current, through the words change, the themes change, but the swerve is there, the way in which the poem moves between ideas or images or people stays the same. my relation to the i that speaks changes. my relation to the you i need changes. but each poem stacks on after the other and continues. i don't write in separate files for each poem anymore, my poems are simply stacked in one enormous text file.

how do i speak of my own writing when my own writing is hardly out there, wherever it needs to be, inside other brains.