dbqp: visualizing poetics

I have been a bit lazy, not tired, but almost into it, like a slip into warmth, have become more of a watcher than a wreader. The words could come--that is no problem--were I to have a stronger desire. Instead, I have a paradesire, a cripple's desire to walk but to not-want the effort required of it.

Writing is a writhing of the spirit, a need to make rather than a need to make sense. Production over argument, heart over lung, a means of breathing forth so that a breath inward may at some point be possible. It allows for life.

But only for the writer, whose only true reader is visible, full-face, only in a mirror, though that mirror might be of glass, or rocking water, or soul.