i isn trying to be nothing. i don wanna be a skin machine. wannabe viable s all. 

i read in hypoallergic about poets who write borderline invisibly, making five books or so, maybe making only one, on an envelope sent to one. imagine in the age of mass production, one to one. a once friend once did that, until he began selling to collectors and everything that left his hands became instant commodity, including the envelope poems he sent to me. i felt weird about it but in a desperate personal economy i sold them back to him, so he could protect his own market and i could pay the rent. and we had little to connect us by then but the envelopes, relics of a time gone and a feeling lost.
this is the way i felt about collages i made. they were little lost things that came out of me, that couldn't be reproduced. there are little holes their leaving makes. now i say like a dog i'm not trying to do anything, but everything is trying to be.  
yet i have to agree with the feeling that things still want to be made even to be lost and for someone to find the lost things that agree with the little blank spaces they leave behind.