X-Mas Eve Apps


On mornings when it all feels
precarious, what you meant to
be mountainous so much easily
washed away sand, I clean myself
by subtracting all I’ve written
from my conscious mind, so that
I’m merely someone who likes

books— I’m old enough not to
mind being that person, who
reads Keats for kicks, sits
harmlessly having profound
thoughts, hoping well of/for
everyone, blinkered like an ox—


“In this recession, no one likes anyone’s
work, because no one real who’s left likes
anything— art depends on a settled brain

to perceive it the right way”— I agreed,
felt bad for him, all alone on a heap of
rocks in the wilderness space of his own

subtle brain— but said nothing out loud.