Primitive Trails From This Point (redux)

Panda cycling and recycling, panda-demics, and panda demotics. Find yourself in the world of widespread fraud and plate tectonics in response to politic-tonics — those gestures and flourishes that are not of this society, of this culture, right? Write!

Go on and write so much so that you can pare down and shape it into something resembling cohesion — that will catch a sovereign ear rather than the father of the mishmash masterclass, of the pell mell muttering, and thee argy-bargy desultory twister.

Meaning is at once nonsense and resoundingly salient only to itself, its maker, and to ladies who lunch coiffed in Viking hair and festooned with scratchcard lanyards. Heep hoop!

Pick up the dry cleaning.

What I’m Reading:

In truth,
I haven’t tasted coffee
For twenty‑nine days.
I haven’t written.
For twenty days I waited,
Thinking it might be enough
To call your name
And weep for you.

— Marah Muhammad Al-Khatib / “Twenty Days”