Another rejection. Lights are low. The last one liked
my work. It’s featured. It’s official. Life is madness, surreal, not here, over
there. I read a person’s work. I see why it was published. It reaches. It has
depth. It’s concrete, elusive, right in the face. Much to writing. A little
harder for some of us. I remember the first time it read in my favor.
I’m linear, meandering, close in topic. I can’t get
upset. I feel it creeping in. I’ve tried four times with this publisher. It
feels personal. It isn’t. At moments, at seconds, its objective, subjective, I ramble
on. By blueness, from toe to forehead, nonchalant, enlove with emotion, scared
of feelings, a given nerd at points, with desires.
Be true to art. Asphalt passion, lucidity distrust,
like it matters to feelings, like mind listens to mental letters. I see why
they published him. I see why they love her art, scholarship. Anxiety is
thetic. Auras are dissertations. Finding examples are impossible, probable, requiring
effort, concentration, disaster of a perfect sentence.
I don’t know how—if they are real—skies seem
perceptual; as far as I can see, as eyes feel reality, space, improbability, to
reach, to want, to need, desire, to try, to receive.
