Len Gurts After One Workshop

Presents with the windows against your ears, your arms out
like a messiah collecting bits—“What do we have
here? Oh dear!”—into the work it goes
without another mention. I thinks there’s the very last of a dream going in? Could it be?
No. Don’t mention it. Now if the art becomes
just free association unsupervised, who is going
to be the first to have a problem with that
because I have, even if it is just tenderly nudging whatever could happen
without much concern for resources, capacities,
all the rage. I am all the rage—can you tell?
I was right in the middle and squeezing hard in trying
to keep this party together, but the mud, and outside,
and past the end of my nose—have you done that?
It’s like another world. I cannot imagine reading this out.
You always knew that was going to be the last shot too
of the dream, which you named. Time is
like touching it here and it made us shake
too much, concerned
with stupid and low-class pleasure. I hate this sound—
one that takes you back to when you were quiet
without much inspiration. I need a circle. I need a lift! An elevator.
A step down, because I am pecking at myself. Though I have that covered.