Now I’m at Manhattan Avenue and India Street.
I just wanted to continue with other things I meant to say about that CD.
There’s nothing in there to get excited about.
Or as my dad once said it’s nothing to shout about.
There was this strange site that I did, or a subsite I guess, for a website in Australia, a long time ago.
It must have been ’96 or ’97.
It was like a guest spot that I did.
I have no idea what it was called or what the URL was but I found all the content for it.
Mildly interesting to find so much stuff I’ve created that I have no memory of.
(My) poetry is kind of gnashing and … quiet.
I mean it’s talking to itself.
The woman in France said that my poetry reads like somebody that is struggling to stay alive.
Or, writing to save my life.
But she’s only read the good stuff.
I told her most of my stuff sucks.
But that’s as it should be, I guess.
But looking at all those pictures of me in silence only further deafens the silence.
