On 315ing

I miss it. Language was happy to seize me, hostage to it at 3:15.   It was always ahead, beckoning me on, into the dark. I submitted and was changed. The combination of first-time at this poetry experiment with training for a first-time triathlon on August 31 richly altered my embodied time.  More fluid now, I gave it permission to overflow its datebook grid, permeable, elastic, breathing.

Themes and language emerged which fed my daytime writing.  A recurring voice urging me to get out of my car.  Penguins, insects, nightsticks, cake, and an insistent demand from way down, "don't tell my mother."  I met in the current of words an early morning ethicist,  a furtive cold blue rage,  and an underground rhythm.  Towards the end of the month, language sought the structure of form, of mathematical play with the repetition of words, phrases: a tidal return.