De File

I find myself killing more entries than usual of late. I'd say I only post a quarter of the ones I start and three quarters of the ones I finish. I don't know why I've become more reticent. I haven't had any bad LJ-related experiences of note. But I'm pulling back regardless. I wonder why.

It's like this more often
than not. I know where
the book is. There's a
picture of it on the shelf

inside my mind. Yes, it
needs dusting. But the map
works with or without a
matte finish. When I go

there, though, the place
is a shadow. If I wanted
room for something new I
would be delighted. "There!"

It's different to remember
what was there before.
Line endings. A refusal
to speed up. Blank truth

that speaks louder than
ornament. I know it's
no accident that she picked
your essay to read, before

the news. She used to dream
of high water. And there it
would be, lapping the
concrete next to her morning

jog. I made her go once,
to hear you, despite
the buttoned-up setting.
"It could be our last

chance." I'm glad, really,
even if it sounds
morbid now. Anyway,
this should have been

a reading. But I can't
find the words, only
their spot on the shelf.
The shadow knows.

Sitting in the La Posada restaurant in Nogales this afternoon, while Charles Bernstein told Carlos Gallego not to leave the term "identity politics" for the people who have given it a bad reputation, I thought of a little formulation that pleases me a good deal: "Every entity has an id."