einstein's brain

somebody mentioned einstein's brain
too many circus sands
beginning to understand being alone
the r'approchment dimming

so much of this life is in notes
regrets I've had a few
nasal passages permanently clogged
(I am) pouring sugar on the fire

having come home I have proved
there are no safe places
without money I am just tedious
all I dream of is food and sex

what happense when I am old?
courage & self confidence are the big problems
and an inability to bet
that is perhaps genetic

inside of me there are these plaintive sirens
of self pity * possibly hatred—
maybe not/I still believe in Akhnaton
& this memory of myself

there's a roaring good read rattling
these bars but how do I get out
of my own way? Perhaps I won't
then all I can do is gather this thin harvest

Statement from the seventies about my relationship to my work. I know and have always known that I lack the necessary courage to accept the story as flawed, as something finished, or at least something that I have given up on. So today I am many stories that I have not given up on. They live in boxes in my basement and study. BB used to never read a story after it had been published. She couldn't stand the idea that she could fix it, anymore. I understood that perfectly. To this day I think about my unfinished, unpublished novels and wonder why I can't let go of them. I finished Corlyss Disbrow's book, Sensimilla, yesterday, and once again I wonder why I haven't published these books, these old friends, these children. Fear of failure, loss of control. It's been a fucked up life people. No one will ever really know what it was that I was trying to say. Except me.