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September 9, 2022 / barton smock

( well a sameness in the journal entry

2019, August

I like the present because now you can do everything tomorrow. also, this poetry thing, this doing of what I thought would populate community with...gathering? seeing and saying, all that. might be done? no one cares. unless you have the mouth they can match the teeth of it to the missing bitemark. but if you don't?  if your mouth is too widely opened? I thought visionary, mine, what is actually delusional. inclusive, theirs, what is actually coordinated. has coordinates. and unheralded lovely poets I love are sick and sad and old and too young and don't make the feed. and it's fine all of it and it happens unseen and is pearl and oyster and shadow's first bone. but I don't need to be here for it, right? some no one. offline. untrue of course. just midnight.

2022, Sept

so, yeah, nothing makes anything worth it, but, it almost does, sometimes, like, you can be broke and you can be lied to about your art and you can be asked to work yourself naked for those who burn their clothes and you can suddenly not be a good father for a few hours and it can wreck you, but, also...you can choose for a moment to not work on yourself and you can choose for a moment to let those around you be finished and it can be quiet and good and momentarily small and private enough to be safe. don't get me wrong it still sucks that we have to grab moments instead of holding the whole thing forever but. oh wait I'm wrong it's all terrible. backspace. delete.

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