The perversity of the ego that declares it will write “for the ages”. Great works have come out of that distortion and a greater many mediocrities also. We know that great works are relative and that without connection to a system great works languish and then vanish. Keep in mind that the ages are brief, relatively speaking. I overheard someone expressing a wish that their book would “outlast us all”. Will it outlast even an hour!

Portrait of a universe on fire, and in witness to that an ego demands infinity. Does my terror of death mean that I too demand infinity?

For some time, months into years, I’ve wanted a functional form. I’ve longed for a functional form. The simplicity of a functional form. I don’t want to give you a fucking poem, I want to give you something silent, and beautiful, that will be of service to you. I started making pots, a form I’d been wanting to learn for many years. Clay will outlast the poem, but that’s not what attracts me or keeps me interested. Its mute chemistry appeals to me, its appeal from the very dirt appeals to me, that it can be ground into dust appeals, its solidity and its mutability appeal to me, I love its low, mute, fuck-you to fame, its deafness to celebrity.

All my studios are closed now, of course. The classroom, the kiln yard. There’s nowhere for me to throw, touch, fire, sand. I live in a condo. So, fuck you: Sentences instead. Poetry instead. For now.

Fragment of a large deep vessel:

Harappan (Indus Valley Civilization). Circa 2500 BC. Black slip, blood-colored slip, on red pottery.