We are 50 poems, the rest is not us but the nothingness we are clothed in

& so I write to choose the best of them & to survive because the complexity of my brain is too personal of an experience can only be shared in snatches of hours spread among others or jotted down on paper because all we have left of others is called history because all of history is called tragedy because artaud also said beauty rots and while there is magnificence it lingers not as long in the world as our steady march to decay because there is so much transience that haunts me & I cannot make it right & I cannot even hold all of me as accessible to memory and speech because tragedy is called memory because memory is called history because none of this is called language because our 50 poems are only language sketching the interstices of human existence because urgency rises between the dimensions of existential panic and ecstasy & so I write –