I want to write a film script but instead I write a poem in the form of a script.
Some days, I put “go outside” on my to-do list.
There’s an algorithm that can “translate” images—turn a Monet into a Van Gogh, a horse into a zebra, summer into winter.
I’ve been working on a translation for two years but have spent very little of that time actually working on it; I always have other work I need to complete before I can work on the work I’d like to be working on.
The problem isn’t my emails, M. said, the problem is my work. What I really need to do is eliminate my work, so I can write emails all the time.
I have a watch that reminds me to breathe.
Does an algorithm know labor, effort?
I’m not rich (I tell myself) because I hate to be told what to do. I’m individualistic because I’m a product of Reagan-Bush-Trump. I’m unhappy because it’s winter, and I don’t own a solar simulator.
We’re all waking up and waking up and waking up ad nauseam.
(Another poet once told me never to use “we” in a poem, a symptom of the loss of the collective, of collective loss.)
We’re in bed. It’s morning, vacation.
We’re waking up anew. We’re awake.
We reach for the script, forgetting there is none.