oh motivation, motivation, where art thou motivation? deny me procrastination and refuse me distraction. or if thou wilt not be, be but sworn my sunny day and I'll no longer be a lazy ass.

not squishing the earthworms under foot is tricky business

& it is wet outside & why does my whole city smell like shampoo?

Proem (Octavio Paz)

At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of joy and the vertigo of death;
the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens;
the laughter that sets fire to rules and the holy commandments;
the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page;
the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses,
for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow of sea and the day-sorrow desert;
the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self;
the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors;
the recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought;
the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands;
the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language;
the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love.

Syllables seeds.