mmdcccliv

The Printing Planet

     Then you are interested in poetry.
                                  —John Ashbery

A heap of embarrassment is, like, today.
Makes me want to mainline embellish-
ment. Which is haute if not couture;
perhaps more couture than haute,
actually. What’s an outfit on a cat-
walk if not an elegant embellishment?
Embarrassment. And a means to escape
it. To rise above is the actual subject here.
Although there is no actual subject. Except
me. Whatever that is. Some of us try, bless
our humble hearts. And never have I been
more keenly aware that the subject, all
subjects, that everything is singly me.
That is, if I am to make any sense of this 

chaos, and of my falling one sad day in

to this rabbit hole; this isolation tank. 

We should all experience being alone
for a solid duration of time. How
can I love you if I don’t love my-
self? Higgledy-piggledy. My off-the-
cuff response is, Why, it’s quite easy,
thank you very much. But, like most 

of the words I make these days, it’d
be incorrect for me to say that. Of 

course I ... love? ... myself. The
world is me. I am one with the world
because I am the world. And, boy, am
I here to tell you all about the experience.