On writing, No. 1

I try to write at least one sentence a day.
It’s a slow, leisurely space,
This pace,
And I
Will,
Of course,
Finish last,
In this Whores race
But what else can I do?
I can only sow as fast as I reap,
I can only reap
As quickly as they grow
And they grow slowly,
Watered by my tastes
Visions and delusions,
Ineptitudes,
Failures,
And dreams.

Conversation with a Dead Jean Seberg at 5 in the Morning

I: Would you do it, still, knowing what you know now?
She: Yes.
I: But…
She: It led me to you. Do you think I’m horrible?
I: No, I think you are very, very pretty.

She stands as if to go.

I: Where is there to go? You are dead and I am dreaming.
She: I thought you said you were awake.
I: One is very much the same as the other, for me.
She: There are other dreams…
I: But none love as I do. None know, as I do. None desire, as I do…