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A friend of mine, a poet and genius, asked me a question the other day:

“What do you want to do with your writing? What drives you, what do you strive to accomplish with your creations?”

I want to put meaning into the average.

I want to see if I can convince people that the sand riddled area around an anthill can be a Roman stadium, a death match arena for all types and species of insectoid gladiator.

I want to show that a blood orange tastes like all past, present, and future generations, a hemorrhaging orange piece of flesh that grows on individual rooted and scarred, these friends of non-flesh have more merit than Gandhi.

I want to use ink as a vessel for knowledge, use breath strained through two vibrato strings of flesh to communicate, establish that a pony-tail on top of a head isn’t just a pony’s tail but the Empire State Building and also Mt. Olympus (Schrödinger like that).

I want to define the difference between a steel-cut oat and one threshed by stone machine, a subtle shift in the sentience of self.

I want to give evidence for the rush of adrenaline during the bombing of Dresden, hiding in a meat locker underneath the city as the air grows thin after fire intruder devours all oxygen from the air.

I want to open minds to the opportunity that a peacock, essence of demure brilliance, dreams of a life beyond mere pedantic ogling from British school children.

All of this to add yet another re-addendummed-proof to the mathematical universe of our existence: Things that look like one thing are also anything else you can imagine.

At last, a poem of Schrödinger aspect//

Two states over there exists a box,
in it may exist an animal of feline origin
or may not exist a mound of bones and fur,
dead as a doornail.