This Sonata Love Song

So I bought Flowstate like I knew I would because the tens of thousands of times I have picked up the pen to review a line I just wrote and let go the line I should have been writing and too late it's gone. This is related to the haiku's. Nature/nurture debate me, I can not write free without rules.

Here, the first Flowstate post! I used Flowstate on my iphone. I set the timer for five minutes then just kept drumming the keyboard for six minutes according to the clock on the laptop I'm typing this. It saved! Excellent! and let me email to myself. I.... need to find a way to a keyboard, tapping on iGlass ain't gonna work. Tried bluetoothing my ancient Dell and new iPhone, they see each other but don't talk. I would love a new macbook, a big one, I'm driving this Dell 2001 Matrix into the ground. My iPad is a 1978 square Datsun, red, driving into the ground. Suggestions?

• Forgive me, I love Schubert's piano sonatas. Schubert born 219 years ago today.
• Waiting on tomorrow.
• Social media is a trap: Zygmunt Bauman interview.
• The Clinton System. And the answer to last question is: No, silly.
• The Clinton System in action.
• What no one will say about the Clintons.
• Obama campaign manager says Ted Cruz = Jeremy Corbin. I understand he's talking electability, not policies, but fuck.
• What do you mean, "Sanders might be another George McGovern?"
• Retreating Clinton campaign torches Iowa town to slow advance of Sanders' supporters.
• WHERE THE HELL'S HIS MONEY?
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• Lispector's short stories finally made it to Library, I think it might be my way into the novels. I'm - quite smacked.
• I am the conscience of the music industry.
• John Lydon is 60 today. Forgive me, I like Public Image Limited.

THEY SAY IT'S NEW

Clark Coolidge

He crackles the air in big fist

because it is turning, the night’s spine

and the fast floor of last year is now the wall of this

Those cracks should be flowers but there is no light

nor lights in the windless binnacle strewn

a slow rate of thought in the broad attention

What is shorn to say and then to leave

awake in the sleep, the pen without its cap

the numbers that will harm if not arrayed

The windows are not blank, the dark not empty

but solid as the mask held loose before

the eyeless active ridden hive

The sounds of the mind entire are

the wind below at the valley floor then a thumping above

as of rocks at work painting the wall

Turn out the lights and think invisibly

stain the turn of time

and hear the year before it’s there