Super quick post because I have been pigging out too much, and my last three posts have been less posts than poem/diatribes. Now maybe I provide an explanation of the pigs that are falling out of me. Notes: many conversations about death drive lately, and conversations about the tiny “island” of poetry which has nearly no place in the “world” or the sea of life that is full of the unreal and the awareness that what we consume come from far away places of suffering but such means are disembodied and my life in academia is great and yesterday I met Dorothea Lasky whom I adore and I adore her because she is brave enough to say that she wants to give love and acceptance to the world, which I as a poet would like to do but I have too much evil inside me. I am inspired by her dedication to teaching and to her generosity of love which makes me feel hopeful about having a future as a teacher or something. It seems to me that it is less important/admirable/effective now to think of the poet as anything other than subterranean earthworms, which I do not mean as a bad thing, because earthworms are great. I agree with Lasky and have said this myself that poets are there to reconfigure language and I have said to my poet friends that the we are defenders of freedom though it is a darkness of freedom because the space that we occupy is the dark spaces left after all the lights and screens and modern capitalist life we are all capitalist and I struggle with the fact that I depend on the consequences of capitalism to have a chance at being a poet. I am not a poet of the everyday or the working class. I am too educated and I am not a musician and sometimes I wish I were a musician because it is immediate and visceral whereas people who read my poems have to be “educated”. My poems are supposed to be visceral too but it doesn’t make the body dance in the same way. Somatic poetry is interesting to me and people talked about it yesterday and it is exciting to see that it is growing trend and I write from the body and perhaps it is a reaction against a disembodied world. But it is also destructive of the body what I write and it is like dissection because it has to explode but it’s not really possible to be alive and open up at the same time and it is strange to see. It is not romantic to me, this business of being an artist. It is the opposite. It is disgusting and abject and fatal. But it is also necessary. Earthworms have to aerate the soil so that things can grow and I am going to aerate the soil of language as a flesh being because it is what I believe in. I will flesh these thoughts out more later. I have to go to school.