the trees are old and dying or already turned to wooden bones feeding fungi and slowly to humus and dust and breath. the young ones are dying. the invaders are eradicated. i believe the poisoner levy though has croaked. there are green things lasting the winter. growing.
i have a part of a tooth, a stump waiting for time to pass, loose now. my skin grew sick in the fall. my best friend is growing blind and deaf. it sounds funny to say growing weaker, growing small. growing inversely. inverted. you grow anyway. something grows in you. it grows on you. i grew tired of wanting things i didn't really want and not wanting things i had. things happen and we make things happen and occasionally the things that happen are the same as wanted things.

i can't imagine obomba ever coming to this place, though he claims it for his tower. i'm reading man in the holocene. if max frisch was alive he might write man in the anthropocene. when you want a book by a dead author you already know it, right? you know what you want. it's no secret. maybe it need not be written. it gets expressed in other ways.
also reading sky train, deep river, and the plains. i'm restless and slow, i wish that i could drink words. when i drank i wanted to be a poet who drank and poems flowed forth. i wanted magic frothy effervescent words couched in flat plain speech. if i wrote one i would want it to be the same poem that has always hung over and eluded me, to find me sober now.