Ars poetica

Let each word carry what it says.

Let it be like the tremor that sustains it.

Let it maintain itself like a heartbeat.

I may not put forward ornate lies not apply doubtful ink nor add shine to what is.

This obliges me to hear myself. But we’re here to tell the truth.

Let’s be real.

I want terrifying exactitudes.

I tremble when I think I’m falsifying myself. I have to bear the weight of my words. They possess me as much as I possess them.

You who know me, if I can’t see, tell me my lie, point out my imposture, rub in my fraud. I’ll be grateful to you, seriously. I want madly to correspond to myself.

Be my eye, wait for me at night and spy on me, examine me, shake me.