The light chokes me. It says, "hi John, this will only take a few minutes." Letting me get just enough air, before reapplying the grape soda pressure. It is all so excruciating. The weeds in my backyard, the meat in my freezer, the socks on the floor. And the smell in the air.

Was off to D.C. twice in the last week. Reading Elizabeth Bishop’s Geography III on H Street. Not being able to leave the cover. For the poems. For the memorials. For all the evil decisions. For all the bad intentions. Just wanting raw ingredients. Or simple recipes. None of the strategy. Or none of the unenjoyable strategies. How do you act? How do you move? How do you speak? How do you do anything? Or do you do anything? Can you do anything? It is already over before it is done or it never happened after it was done. Any action. Every action. But those cranes. Those buildings. Those streets are really there after the fact. But the facts melt. The subtleties fade. And my brain is not your brain. And so on.