Some might say I lack enthusiasm. To some I’d say I don’t wanna. There are two rails on which my life runs, academic (ha!) and artful (double ha!), linear and squiggly, but I tend to end up straddling the third and we all know where that leads, treading lightly fearful falling from where I belong (latter) and where I’ve tried (former) just to end up shocked. And at times confused, but other, most, most mostly times just fried and faking it.

Fake it till you make it, that’s what the work folkses say, and do say it they too goddamn much. Reason one thousand and one why I say “too much” too much. Faking doesn’t a thing make I say silent back to no one listening, in particular. Two reasons, those, and both of them ways of tangling with audience, elusive, mysterious, my sweet alien unknowns to whom I obscurely peddle soul, parts and whole.

Tangling, wrangling, angling with soul parts deep fried and half-baked pent up and dying to work on my own stuff by week’s end but worn down again and then it’s Saturn’s day and the schooly side remembers Macrobius and wonders if mentioning him now will fool you, my sweet aliens, into thinking this good, thinking what I’m saying is or what I might say might be. What was that line, the one you screenshot a week or month or so ago, o friend of mine? All you motherfucking poet-philosophers sound alike to me? Or was it philosopher-poets? Poet side says it comes second, but rests above, and I say good, it does, will, should.

Good saying what will do, less good doing, seems. Those are just pieces so I sit down and stop and place a large book in the center of my solar system of reads around which all else for a spell revolves, my heart entranced by someone else’s words again, of course, forgetting my own, a chorus crooning of “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all,” a hymnal ringing through all my nighty nightingale sometimes silent singing, till someone picks it up and listens and turns “audience” un-profane.