4 December, 2008


Dirt is my universal.

I am somewhere between exhausted and angry, somewhere familiar with a new smell- the panic is not there now (are the meds working, or am I growing?)

These bastards, they take my words.

They make me think, believe- know that all I have is my words and they demand them constantly, constantly fucking asking for more more more more until I am sallow and crying in the shower, angry and embittered and hopeful, pained and I’m still somewhere between hating and loving –
So now they tell me, congratulations, you’ve done it, you’ve got yourself up here and if you want to stay you must keep climbing, higher, more, better, until- but I will NEVER loose sight of the trees of the dirt and the earth under my feet- this institution is not so powerful, it can not co-opt the dirt, for god’s sake, they can take me and make me and then leave me crumpled and rind- like, they take my will to write but they can never take the dirt beneath my feet, the words,

I guess I don’t really need them.

I think that’s what they want me to forget and what I can’t forget to remember- know I shouldn’t- these words are not mine – they were not mine to begin with- they were always their words and I am so much more than words, I am so much more.

It is better to be dirt.


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