In the sacred and crucial moment of breaking all I could think of was two gourds rolling around.

Hard to wake up.
I spend today 8 unpaid hours unturning the earth to make an answer (a dog-eared half-memory).
(Three entire people swear to me that it was digging cured their or their loved one’s depression. Specifically digging. The therapy of it isn’t completely lost on me.
The sun turns a miasma into a kernel of sweat. The night contains 6 iterations of itself. Mud too wet, less moisture next time...)

In the first hypothesis, it is posited that some time ago you dedicated a part of your soul and vital energies to preparing in some small ways to be on reality tv, and now that energy is gone from you.

Meanwhile the space by the door is the same space. It stays the same size from whatever distance.

A new thought experiment: You are a loon who nests every year on Little Loon Island. The traffic from a new camping resort will drive you away from this nesting site.

The conditions are perfect for
The whole room moves away, the moon, and the air stills, and the unmoving condors.
The nesting site stays the same size.
What do your hands do? What do hands do?

In a youtube video with a green background, black italic letters appear one by one until they spell más que todas las canciones que le he dedicado esta va con amor dolor y esperanza

and in the moment of breaking all I can imagine is a small figure of spongebob squarepants hidden halfway in tall carpet fibers.

A gourd has entered my life somewhere, escaping my vigilance.

The survey they sent your home from the facility asked:
Do you feel that you should not have dug up the bitter core?
or do you feel powerful and true when you hurt?
or do you feel both all the time the condor unmoving and the mountain crossing the wind,
the difficulty waking, and
600,000 people making letters appear one by one to make new proper noun names of products where the word didn’t exist before.

Oh, I just want beautiful tomatoes!
My small wet heart, burning through a napkin and humming.
I tiptoe into the bathroom dark, to discover a tube of bluegreen hair gel belonging to my brother, and slip it into a velvet pouch
that I take and no one sees small like an oriole.

Words disappear like on a raft
The cochayuyo

I move again through the mango yellow lights that kill me but without blood
(this thick beauty, drowsy desperate and childlike tearstained sex again to pat the earth smooth once more---how can there be anything but love? And yet).

You dream of someone placing a beautiful little goat upon the shoulders of the pope
and loons nesting again on Little Loon Island
and amor dolor y esperanza.

Not awake but now awake to the moon with the thin blue fabric with the dark impossible florals like a myth garden or a constellation or a prehistoric myspace gif.

Now it seems
the noise, fear, it-all, protrude beyond out outside the encapsulation of thought and outside the encapsulation of experiment.

You’re digging now to something somehwere something new and the pieces always coming back for good and worse and we dig and rotate and all of us always in it all in the newness in the soil nesting like that.