Praxis is one’s chief poiesis (that’s my theory)

Way I figure it
comes down to

permission to suck.

Frees up daring to try
what’s up plus death
dives down. and

I need one or both, 
sometimes. I follow both 
or one. I reckon each

lil' new-breathing 
work, whose

tiny bones 

align mid-hang, sinews 
and guts webbing in
to tune, to chord
whatever song it 
sings, or might have 
sung: "If it dies,

from being created, 

it dies."

“I was only going to make
another one! Rack ruin
and hazard and hang
fire wrong!”

Or aright, as it comes.
Let it, I say! That's its
job.
Mine is
to suck loud and with
enthusiasm, so perchance

perhaps to rule.
In moments, memorialized 
in good works and turds. 

I see free clunk and free botch
as steam vent and tendon stretch
to cleanse and supple me up

for strict rigor
and discipline, later
maybe. Switching off apace.

Switching on in space.

So an opening, aperture 
in me

dilates