To write you have to forget. Stop everything and let the drawers overflow. Let the rainbow of papers and the ejaculate vortex of files and binders be rapt in the air and cascade as confetti. It’s an Arcade Fire song. Forbid doing. Cleanse your throat of speaking and turn it into song. Slide up and down your neck and let the warm gust come from your belly and flood your chest with burning iron ore and wet towels. A smoke engine.
The ache in your back from holding up your shoulders, the painful squeezing together of the clavicles concealing your jugular is so we can write the money and the rent and the credit card. Here the pain becomes part of the cold room and the warm sunlight. The air and the woodpecker and the two tv sets face down by the fence are all part of my toes. The enchantment. Leading keys through the synesthetic orgasm in my soul. I pump the magic through my body and save it for later.