I stayed out past one in the morning and now it’s Monday

I stayed out past one in the morning and now it’s Monday. I consider

cooking a paired-down version of pasta primavera this evening but

have no peas, asparagus or pasta. Plus I’m in the office today. I stayed

out past my ability to converse, nodding my head, full of love. Anselm

apologizes for keeping me out so late, but I’m not embittered, just past

language into unreasoning feeling. The Strait of Harmuz blockade

continues and Trump said if it was up to him, he would “keep the oil”

in Iran. All objects are equally objects, but not all objects are equally

real, the point being that a good theory supposedly has to draw 

distinctions between different kinds of beings, but a philosophical

theory should begin by excluding nothing, says Graham Harman.

I was out too late and I’m finding it hard to think about the agency 

of my noodle soup. Must my noodle soup have agency to be real?

My staff I.D. from twelve years ago of me looking tired and angry

in my asymmetrical haircut. Which of us is more real? I see the appeal

of ranking realness–some parts of my life feel more material than others.

Frankly, I am unfeigned about most things. This is why I will never

be cool. If I did heroin, I would die. It’s why I suffer after my late nights.

One of my yoga teachers warned me about overheating, but I usually

don’t worry about that until summer. Still, this morning I woke with hives

on my face. There is too much of the God of War in me, but I’m

replacing my life with an account of its effects–that is one thing

a poem can do, be. My life is both more than its components and

less than its current actions. The poet Lorraine who currently

types these words in her office at the University of Maryland

while wearing mascara is far too specific to be the Lorraine

who will leave D.C. next week, and she can remove the mascara

whenever she wants. Atoms swerve through the void, and swirl.

My third-grade crush became by senior year boyfriend, and he

appears in my most apocalyptic dreams as his 17-year old self.

I don’t know to what degree I can continue to work today. The crappy

light in this office and subpar coffee, but everything is constantly

changing. I think about getting a new bookshelf for my studio.

Everything is contingent. A poem and a life are more interesting

for what they do, not what they are. I don’t care what Monday is,

but I know what it’s doing to me. I’m not sure what it means

for the world to be purely immanent, but I don’t think transcendence

is by default oppressive. I mean, I know this is all there is, that

the inhibiting features of this world are both element and action,

not one or the other. There are no distinct boundaries, no cut-offs.