The mind’s wet paint. Your ears tingle with knowing. Your scalp—it comes alive. The transfer is complete.
It is safe to be seen. I feel you. They don’t want us to feel. I feel seen.
Where you goin’ with all that [delete overused word]?
What have we made?
Who do you make with?
Why? Why do you make?
Have you made a country? Or its absence?
What has made you? Not who.
I once told a friend: Allow yourself to be homesick and to grieve for all your other selves. I keep trying to be artful about saying: TELL PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED NOT WANT TO HEAR
I am not yelling.
Draw something here:
A sensation. Another transfer is complete. You are degenerating.
The best criticism is a question.
It asks you to return to the universe of yourself.