belly speakeasy

I am thinking about animus. voice coiled tight in belly.
the compartment containing the steering apparatus. i know its a problem that I care about penny, dust and freckle almost equally. if i could care less about everything I'd be a much lighter person.

my new ritual is to watch an online morning news show to help anchor my day. at night my insides hurt in the gastrointestinal way and i'm sleepless. I try recalling bicycle rides down Alaska Street, a half attempt at sleep-meditation. instead it makes me melancholy: encounters with ghosts and scribbling poems on furniture. this is not the kind of writing i want to be doing.

instead--the bellyspeak meets an old-timey pen-- a "variation" on my misreading of VENTRAKL, a book I've been meaning to read. what animates. what turns the switch. for me this is body. body and body again. my journal diagrams a new project on body violence: animal puppetry.

(not be confused with my watching project on residual energy).

but today, a body can't be loud enough. maybe because the world doesn't care for a body. named or unnamed. bodies refusing to leave cells. body turned swan. body stitched shut. the body is having less and less affect/effect (on me). when body became territory it became like everything else.

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