Bro I got you, dw. I'm not really hung up on youth (albeit you could accuse me of being a part rather than apart). I think it's because details are finally sinking into this thick skull of mine; were a ballerina to pause, pivoted, and wait.. I doubt a child wouldn't begin to wonder why and again I doubt their reasoning would exceed the idea of (perhaps) intention. To say, simply put, I did it because I could. Outside of harm, a child can only imitate containment (in part because they're so unbound, but also because they're unable to comprehend the concept). To a weathered soul, the concept has a hefty kind of weight to it (that very empirical kind of weight). A child will listen with open eyes in that they'll look in their own attic, and revisit time and time again, looking for what you may have meant.
There is a weight, a beauty, a depth to containment. A kind of nod, an implied understanding, a hearing that doesn't require eyes (because it seems to have everything in hand). The only kind of containment that breaks itself off a person, as if to say they were a crumbling statue, is very emotional in nature and (if I may, in my youth) pertains to internal experiences (the self before it self). What do you want more?
I wonder what you'd write about if you tried to take these things (perhaps, yourself) seriously.
Age has a way of making us more cautious and looking for all the possible faults before we leap, before we make the decision to stitch things up.
and when we do finally sew it all together, we hope and pray we did a good enough job that the shit doesn't unravel, or worse the threads break.
Your work still makes me think.
Hope all is well.
I really like this Keith, like you have a sophisticated vocabulary but it's written on concrete, with mud.
Life is kind of funny i think, like you make the reference to the pimple (hilarous for the consumate ease) but when you are young i think any person is all about making moves. It's like your brain is not attached and you're making three thousand moves without any burden of consequence. Action and consequence are not travelling fellows.
These days i feel like i have not one millimeter of room, i feel like i have lost grasp of the cliff (and i calculate the likely angle of descent, i know that the outcrop some 20m below will hack off my shoulder and most of the left flank sending me into a tumble and so on and so on)
and so i don't move-
I just wait.
I don't mean to be morose, i just kind of think the genuine value in your poem might be in the idea of moving around like a twenty yr old and getting out of your head.
Fuck it, right?
Your stuffs so unique. I accuse you
of being a damn fine writer
and a well of good