Once a friend of mine told me,
‘oh you are a poet, that means you can get sad in a cue.’
Well that was funny.
I guess being a poet can be compared closely to a living of sufferings.
There’s no better day, there’s no speechless avenues,
everything is diluted with the politics of making chaos out of ordinariness.
You can watch, you can move your fingers like anomalies,
you can stand up and protest with blue fires…
but to create a stirring in mountains you need a avalanche of thoughts,
and thoughts need time, bones, beer, bourgeois recreations.
So a poet remains a coward, a socially acceptable bandit, a scarecrow for concrete heads.
Then there are possibilities…and this feelings of belonging are scattered possibilities…and what is probable is a part of being inimitable.

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Photograph: Tiffany Mueller.