everything's in what you throw away

Dustbin: cleave, foreshortened, talking in my sheep portend, but meant to say potion. Dream of dying mother keeps returning to my thoughts, asking her for father’s correspondence doesn’t help, nor does Lazarre telling me that it’s all pain and suffering and absurdity. He’s a fan of Beckett—sure he is. “Don’t call it the ball thing; call it pure being.” Dirty roommate. Hanger on. Saying the worst helps, how can it get any? Saying that helps too. Eliding makes it pungent, or I might just let the parts of the letters that hang down into the next line determine however irregularly or inconsistently what I’m placing on the page the lambda, no, the gamma, that hangs down, no the zeta that hangs down from my ‘y’. It’s all there, all already there, or here though now I’m arrested by what I’d meant to be a liberating title “Dustbin,” the garbage that makes way for the rest to come, my best work after all.