Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.
Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.