in the abstract. In the third
person. Breaking the fourth
wall. Lately he prefers being
direct. Transparent. Straight
forward. This asshole who’s
never quite been gotten. He
thinks he remembers abstract
is to poetry as straightforward
is to fiction. But he knows that’s
bullshit. He knows where he is.
Oh, but now, things are looking
bleak. He’s incredibly depressed.
Because to know where he is
placed on a map. He goes about
the rest of the depressing day
placing everyone else on the same
map, in relation to him, to his place
on this extra large piece of paper
stretched out beneath where he sits,
now with tiny pins of different colors
pricked through it into the floor of his
understands the importance of such
map, in relation to him, to his place
on this extra large piece of paper
stretched out beneath where he sits,
now with tiny pins of different colors
pricked through it into the floor of his
living room. He knows it’s important
to know where he’s from, where he is,
and where he’s going next. But he often
goes about his days trying to erase
these facts. Well, his memory isn’t
great, but he can’t erase this place.
and where he’s going next. But he often
goes about his days trying to erase
these facts. Well, his memory isn’t
great, but he can’t erase this place.
It’s where he regularly sits. Yes, he
understands the importance of such
reflection, but the biggest mystery
for him seems to be when to keep
cooking up his dislocation and when
best to get out the compass. He longs
for freedom, the latitude to dispense
with his whereabouts at his discretion.
for him seems to be when to keep
cooking up his dislocation and when
best to get out the compass. He longs
for freedom, the latitude to dispense
with his whereabouts at his discretion.
