Everything I tell you is a story, or a part of one, and I’ve no inclination-desire to be less esoteric, only to be more poetic. The tussle with content and form, with self, in fact, un-fact, and all its reconstructions, even selflessness with the “I think” qualifier to down-tone the pathology, and how and in what mode or medium to paint it. Even now—where do the line breaks go, if any? Ok, none, for now, decision made, and then there’s Yiadom-Boakye saying “the power is in the painting itself.” Not the page or idiom, in other words, not those somehow alone, but the act. The actless act, I might add, to dig it a little deeper, the selfless-ful effort of the putting, free of mission or agenda or construct. The power is in the prompt, you might say, and it makes no difference who you are, listener, and doesn’t matter who I am—just another listener, a sometimes teller, enjoying how it feels to hear and be heard, back in a corner, down in a hole, out in the open.

Everything I tell you is a story,
or a part of one, and I’ve no
inclination-desire to be less
esoteric, only to be more poetic.

The tussle with content and form,
with self, in fact, un-fact, and all its
reconstructions, even selflessness with
the “I think” qualifier to down-tone

the pathology, and how and in what
mode or medium to paint it. Even now—
where do the line breaks go, if any?
Ok, here, for now, decision made,

and then there’s Yiadom-Boakye
saying “the power is in the painting
itself.” Not the page or idiom, in other
words, not those somehow alone,

but the act. The actless act, I might
add, to dig it a little deeper, the
selfless-ful effort of the putting,
free of mission or agenda or construct.

The power is in the prompt, you might
say, and it makes no difference who
you are, listener, and doesn’t matter
who I am—

just another listener, a sometimes
teller, enjoying how it feels to
hear and be heard, back in a corner,
down in a hole, out in the open.