Found this in my drafts. From May 13th, 2003. This was when I was in grad school, taking a writing class, and most relevantly living next door to Talan. (Where’d his site go? It had such literary-critical gems. Aigh.)
To sleep… to sleep is a price too steep, must work, mold words, count-downing ten pages — downing a beer after allergy pill, a mistake in the making — mold words meekly, humbly tumbling tattered idea to tattered idea, just-do[ing]-it getting over it getting it over with, thought passing over and under and either side of computer, books, words, work, up and away to coffee or not-coffee, to still softness, still tentative, still — sleepy and still… movement come from within, building gilding the rose, rising welling up then dive, a well so cool then still
to be behind below beyond the chatter of Greimas grimacing from out his structurgrid grinning — to leave, to weave instead a bed of leaves or sheets or page, to think nought about wages, war, weakness, wage peace in stillness, movement minute, diluted further by soft smooth laughter out from the inside.
They ought let you write papers as flowingly as that meta-paper liquid language poetry.
That’s delightful. I envy you your way with words.
simply gorgeous.