Ah. The Anthony Braxton paper is done.

I will now listen to Cannonball Adderley out of sheer orneriness. Take that, O cerebral one!

Fuck all things writerly, slammery, and poetry.
Fuck all things workerly, playerly, and loverly.
Fuck the sound of one hand clapping and one lung napping.
Fuck the sight of the ripe apples and the first robin bobbin.
The finest of fine things sucks out loud like bad wind in a church
and the world smells like a jock stretched over a cesspool.

All I want now is the nothing brought about
by not having, not doing, not speaking, not hearing.
The listening ends here, the arguing ends here,
the willingness to compromise and the need to win end here.

Fuck all the kisses, fuck wounds and simple gestures.
Fuck the sweet edge of just before sex that begins when it is assured
and the rejection that leaves the tang of dead roses in your tongue.
Fuck the way I move, the way you move, the way movies move
and the way past the way the movies move.

Fuck you, you, you, you, you, you. You ought to know better
than to not be a problem. How will I ever learn to deal with you
when you don’t bother me at all? I’m just a paper pony
and I crush when you ride me. Fuck the way I fall over.
Fuck the nature of things. Fuck things.

I’m not alone here. Others are saying it too, even if
it’s not to you. We are all worthy of unworthiness.
We deserve nothing…

Fuck the holy hell out of this life
and it still keeps coming back for more.
I want to lie down and weep. What am I doing wrong?
What am I doing?