Awaking to the usual expectation of expectoration, that I must produce, must create, must continue to fill oceans with mountains, mountains of text, intellectual cardboard, impossibly forgotten photographs, mental effluvia of ceaselessness unimaginable to the universe’s floor. Then, rummaging through pictures from 2007, as this morning’s postings demonstrate, I find myself on a kayak, submersible on one of those very oceans I gurgitated, roaming through pictures and videos of what Ashbery called “Forgotten Sex” or, perhaps, “Misbegotten”. I’ve become numb to the sex pictures and the cocksucking videos. They used to make me wince, the stale sex of abandoned relationships once burning, unendingly so in that hot second before mutually agreements that it never made sense. I not-so-quietly explain to myself that I should never have irrecoverably deleted the ones I did, threats of restraining orders and nonsense dramatical hogwash notwithstanding. Those were damn fine videos, as I recall. I was with a woman for a while with whom the fun was in watching ourselves in a mirror. Not a ceiling mirror, per cheesy 70s fashion, but bedside. It was sweet to see our smiling faces, hers sweeter than mine, pressed against each other.