If there is a house, I don't know how to get you to draw it.
Do you want me to be inside it?
Do you want yourself to be the plan of it?
Do you need to sleep outside, on the patio--will that do it?
Will that make the dream come to you,
the blueprint all fixed and starry and purposeful, as you need it?
Because I don't know if I do.
Some words are not nearly as useful as they could be.
For instance, some of these swaths that we have to send back--
I wouldn't mind.
Not really saying as much.
But, I really hate some words.
I hate them with something like ardor.
The ardor of your interiority.
The way certain sounds...
you turn up the flame on the sugar, for instance, to melt it--
underscoring the word village, where the world becomes street.
That world is too busy--too black.
For I hate hustle, I hate hegemony, I hate hate.
Also that swayback, I hate it.
I hate plurality.
I hate the fact that just to exist means, being partial.
I hate the row, (just now, the one we just had).
And I hate the salesman who insists on going to his car,
who keeps on rising up to go to his car, who keeps everything in his car--
his damn car--with not a goddamn thing back here,
where we could use it.
Or I hate you--I hate you, sometimes. When you're asleep--
you're not so tender.
You fall asleep and your eyelids rove about.
Your limbs thrash.
Are you thinking about me, is this the house you wanted,
is that why you hate it?