Sold American. 

 i want the story. i'm ok with not knowing. the story comes through anyway. the unknowing is part of it. the story beyond the story, untold. content with the picture and the feeling, and wanting the story. 

 

Thinking about disaster capitalism and the fires in Los Angeles and thinking about the origins of the Sound Suits in Africa, and how Obama took the park for his vision of progress, brand Hope and Change, thinking about the drumming, the joy, the celebration, the displacement, the plaza of the oligarch in the park, the bent arc of justice, the disaster of capitalist empire, at home in the park.

 They're trying to build this dystopia. They're killing nature and talking about the post-human world. I'm reading The Invention of Nature. They're buying all the books to scan and destroy. They want to eliminate the individual mind and annihilate nature. I think I may have read The Invention of Nature before artificial intelligence began accelerating the destruction of the earth. While I wait for my new book, I'll read it again. Everything that is destroyed becomes part of the record of life on earth. 

Feel the stone, the time weathering, the grain softening. Bring it home. Touch the skin. You know it like your own. How the skeleton moves within. There's something inside everything, the secret, palpable, moving. Later, in bed again, watching the sky light up, rumbling. Feel the building, the bones quake. The electric air quickens the pores of your skin. You tingle, absorb, release yourself in particles, softly eroding in time, time like weather, the body in time, weathering the world within the world. Try to write a poem that feels like that stone. Try to write a poem that feels like your hand touching the stone.

 This witness elm survived the extinction.

 R. passing hydrangeas.