I’m afraid of this poem I’m writing. I don’t like the speaker. The poem has grown to a monstrous size… I no longer know what the poem wants. I feel numb and vague, a feeling that over the past two days I’ve associated with drinking too much milk. Actually it’s not numbness I feel but a surplus of energy. Like a pot that I have to stir or pour off.
I’m committed to an idea. I’m worried that the idea is wrong. I’m worried that it doesn’t matter whether the idea is right or wrong.
Human beings are not meant to be compared. Everything about the world seems formless to me. The divisions between things are either infinite or non-existent. I can’t decide whether I am sticking my hand through something or tracing its edge.
Who decides anything?
What do they know and how can they be stopped?