Like subject formation. Composition as a kind of violence. Each time I breathe I am hoarding air that could be for another. Existence one way (vent) at the expense of another (common world). Logic of tabulation. Logic of regime. Regime tic. This song is about time passing. This song is about work. Hating work. I am an enemy of progress. If only because I am an enemy of time. Meaning I am an enemy of the avant-garde. All art being excess. All excess being waste. Which I mistake for exhalation. P sent me a tweet pointing out that any ontic unity. Would know a categorical loneliness. But can a thing be lonely when there is no outside. My poems are frequently driven. By a desire for recuperation that lacks an object. This desire comes at the expense of history. & may simply be a desire for ignorance. Ignorance of history. Which is actually violent. Unlike my fear of hoarding breath. Which is a purely poetic anxiousness. When my poems fail it is often because I am trying. To pass off poetic anxiousness as truth. Suddenly light stands up inside a room. Then shaking begins. Perhaps an egg hatching from the inside. Just before the limits fled. & I saw you standing there. Did you see me standing there? In my workplace. There exist many white people asking others. How should I feel what should I believe. Or rather. What are the correct beliefs & feelings right now where do I find them. So we as white people can. Exhibit correctness. In an adequate way. This means yes being able to tell ourselves that we are a good. White person but it is also. About reducing the harm whiteness inflicts. On the world now. & in it. This harm can be minimized & offset it cannot. Be turned to nothing. This fact can be difficult for white people to accept. Or relate to in a way. That is not destructive. Feelings that make me. A less productive worker. A less kind & caring friend. There are words of kindness that arrive with a force so visceral that they become. My actual bones. S says to F she has potential. I am no more or less a spool of address & that came from all of you. Not that this is an ontology of value. But I’ve cantilevered my metaphors. With the fallen plane. Of accounting expense debt. Metastasis of profit’s rate. This figurative field. Predicated on a swerve. Away from lines of thinking. That cross what isn’t accounted for. Pleasure boredom clarity. They are worthless. They lack a worth that admits quantification. So they exist outside of that. There occurs to me a claim like. Because it traffics in the outside poetry is uniquely suited to the task of repairing immanence. I don’t know what I mean. By uniquely suited repairing or immanence. This is dishonest. I know what I mean. Just not if I believe it. For many years I thought truth. Was quaint hokey bullshit. But I had to give that up. In the face of my growing hatred for the fake. Jane Gregory has a poem called It Is Disgusting and Imitates Truth & I think of this often. Imitation truth. When I catch myself hoarding words. That are not true yet they act like it. And I am composing myself in pieces. Not my own pieces but those stolen. From an elsewhere. & it may already exist & it may not yet exist & it may not ever exist & it may exist as the outside. That isn’t here. Above me the helicopters arrange. It’s starting to rain. Which is the outside saying. Fuck you I’m here.