Draft Saved at 10:36:10 am.

my recent fear of spontaneous combustion
or the simultaneous cytolysis of all
my cells is probably what is keeping me
in my room with closed doors and drawn
curtains.  Crystal Wagner’s work at
the Emporium and Leslie Hatten’s
at The Birdhouse for First Friday had
several things to say about this
when I told them telepathically or somehow
by osmosis, and they said things not in words
but in shapes and forms and structures
of the mind, centers of complexity
like messy-petaled flowers
or spiraled galaxies, or rows
of colored strips of canvas
like uneven xylophones, flinging their
particularity out onto the walls.
the blasted designs of cut paper
and deeply-involved color,
to me, somehow, osmotically.
I want to be able to weave myself
back into living, because I have these
intricate worlds and colors
all fretted, innerly.  and I know
that it could potentially be v. v. good.
Christ’s work, then, because all He does
is v. v. good, and He did me.  sometime
soon I will be v. v. ok again.