And, yeah — here I am. My rice pot bubbles. I hear a frequent cricket. It was a sliver moon I saw in east sky this morning. I have a house — I need to keep working to pay for it, but that’s OK. It’s OK because my job is OK. I didn’t wear my new glasses last day. I wonder if — I feel like waiting another day ’til I’ve gotten a better sleep and my eyes aren’t already tired. I don’t think I’d want a literary reputation like Joyce Carol Oates has — but presumably she likes what she’s written. Why else do it (unless one is merely careerist)? I wrote some magpo poems alongside my English 2 students yesterday (during picture-day interruptions and while some kids finished Monday’s pre-test/pre-quiz).
[From journal of Weds., 24 Aug. 2022, Journal 366, page 32. See magpo poems from 24 Aug. below.]
Ancient winter beneath verdant bug: Lonely, thriving frost uses every dark shade. Shine rustles, or earth was too blue. Then seeds wandered with our sanctuary but never beheld my sky. ... Mornings do haunt eternity. Dark liquid, my, those bellies throb sacred, good. Her brilliant lie: poetry. My delicious crap. So then, embrace, boy; content could download and planet, too. Dragons crash linear joy to you. Play her evil protection action. From dark summer sanctuary, eat soft moon, then seed fruit. Only squirrels ate blossom root. Soft nachos world, how through Pearls cheat, almost buy upgrades. Here, relax. Must night dawn me? This complete, intelligent want: how some follow insects, give seasons when moss-dusk strolls.
MonkeyMoonMachine 