been like a bear holing up in his den, eating, drinking then doing a lotta sleeping. have not written at all this week, and only tonight made a couple of superficial changes to the interview text i've been working on.

b.f.d., as they say. night before last anna and i watched a program on pbs about making new boxes that'll house the declaration of independence for several hundred years. then last night fell asleep watching a show of speculative fiction, tho many of the scenarios, such as global warming, are based in fact, on how the human species won't last another two hundred years.

which leads me to thinking about poetry. do you write, do i write, with the thought that our texts will last as long as the race does? do i care about permanence, being around, in the form of texts, after i croak? short answer: no, not at all. we die, we all die, everything dies, the human species and this planet will die, so what do i care about my piddling little poems surviving.

why bother stating that anyway. cuz, i'm alive, for what it's worth, and for me poetry is part of the arts of survival and living. they are parts of the processes of my consciousness, again for what that is worth, and therefore have value, in fact are invaluable, to me. i do more reading than writing, which means that reading is an absolutely integral part of these processes of living, both textually and sensually. and yes, all are of the mind, if in a mammalian, or reptilian part of the brain, along with the intellectual properties which make of these texts and sensualities. and my reading also means that i value, highly value, the works of my comapdres, living and dead, in the art.

for what that is all worth, again. who gives a fuck about living after death. living is in a near-continual presence. one day i'll be kicking up daisies. we all will. in the meantime i can write and read, and as the great berrigan said in 'last poem', let none regret my end who called me friend.

amen, brother