the need to go about the grind, pushing it, like a forehead against the bars, the pipes. like rubbing rust against the knuckles. the need to make it through the grind, to make it matter, like tightening teeth.
as if there is an other side, a way through. as if there was respite. ever the quandry. he says, “wow. you obsess”
you bet your ass i do. i commit. extreme. i ponder it all around the gums, i pluck it out, i study it, run under my chin.
this is what you do to find a pace, a rhythm, a way of going about. like listening for the beat before the leg lifts from the floor, before the toe taps. it’s incredibly awkward until it’s there. and finding it again and again, like hands in dirty laundry if you can stand the stench of what you’ve worn before.
but i never go back these days, i never fix anything. like unfinished doors and torn off bits of skin. all i try to do is open things with a hammer and thrash about. i never go back.