I look at myself and see only the frailties
I see the ways in which I don’t work in this world
the parts that are broken, or hanging on hinges
rusty, unsecured.

But in this arc of a life, there is a beauty which
has polished me. Shiny metal, where grit rubs.
Angles, constructed so as to deflect anger,
which in turn, teach me about balance.

It is, has been, a life.

But I forget the boi.

I forget the path I’ve walked, the cool things I’ve seen,
done,
been.

I forget I am.

How funny.
How sad.

The boi.

I am he.
If I only

remember who has taken this journey.

My companion.
My myself.

To stop. And remember the world,
as it speaks in its eternal hubbub.
Is a whisper, a noise.
Not my heartbeat.

To be able to listen, to this whisper,
to let it be my mirror,
shape me.

And yet.

Not forget that as I stare into its lense.

I see me.

Reflected with all of the other things in the background.

How then.
Don’t throw out the boi with the
noise.
Let them entertwine.
Each is strong.

Like little pieces of a mirror or a painting on glass
falling down, through the dark
I watch my self dis-aggregate.

Each colored piece sighs as it passes by
And I feel a feeling associated with it.

Into an empty hollow, or a neverness, an openness
They are not the same, but the feeling is ever changing.

Until I find the bottom, which is void.

A freedom.
A release.

And there is a supporting movement, an energy, which holds me
as I do this.

A wave I know as love.

I look about at the detritus of love,
torn envelopes not thrown away,
because someone special sent them,
letters painted and embroidered with
fine wire clasps or written at angles on the page,
a box,
pictures
of whom I love,
and

I sit here.

(She is) Far away,
in pain,
I
do not know
where she is
at

What sound this silence
that looms large in my heart.
I do not know how to send her
my care.
Wish
I was there,
to hold her.

Simple things
A white lily draped over green
Cotton sheets fresh in the morning air
the book entwined with one’s fingers
the hand rummaging in your hair
the smell of roses on the wind

Complicated things
a photograph that bends your perception
a dense poem
fancy food at a restaurant more of art than world
the pattern of leaves on the ground
a look after a storm

Sublime things
The raw energy of love
brown goats cheese
that ache in your heart when you see a loved one do something “them”
an evening thunderstorm over the Acropolis
the palette in a sunset

Simple things
writing in the morning
the sound of your voice as rememberance
the texture of handmade paper
a cats body kiss
endings that lead to play

silence, and laughter far away

The context of our lives,
with a fine grained presence
in colors, ochre, mauve, bright reds,
oceanic blues, verdigris, black, white, missing.

We arrange and
confine
and choose to be
unable to choose.

Hang the sign, “Happy”
or “Sad”.

The serpent’s twist a
langorous body sway, divine.

Power, which fear
fears.
And to stand
within its matrix
tremulous movements
of heart, mind and bodyself.

I asked a man to tell me of this
thing.
He said go south.
I asked a woman to tell me
who I am,
She said go north.
I spoke to a dog in coyote’s skin
dancing round the way, and said
tell me
And he ran to the east.
I asked a cat
all curled up in light
tell me
She stretched and entered a hole
in the west.

I stood there, with no one else to ask.
At the center of the world
And realised
I hadn’t asked myself.
Tell me.

My body
touches

it feels
it moves
it shivers
anticipates

what i am
shape
exists as my body
shapes me

you say the body
is bad
you say to dance
is evil
you say my only worth
is being sacrificed
to your god
For salvation

and if i had breasts
gave birth
my body would be
beyond all retrieval

you say a lot

words falling down
to drown the feeling
of being
wet, warm, soft
alive

do not be afraid to be alive

Street walking

Oh well I lost out when i tried to
tried to sell my soul

there are better things they said
that we have on our minds

Such misery I feel
(as I) wander alley ways

looking for a place to sleep
or trash upon to lay

and if I were an angel
I’d hide behind my grime

and only lonely street people
would see me in their mind

The death they all fear,
they keep at bay with stuff

my reality
does not require so (very) much

I am a junkie so they say
they miss the point entire

It’s reality put in my veins
shopping I leave behind

I do
not want
your commercial dreams of life
nor greed as my alibi
for why I hate life (wife?)

The pain i feel
I see with open eyes
Your closet suffocates me
your drowning, stagnant, cries

I wish to know
the tenor of my sorrow
its weight and feel
how it takes the rough edges of my coat
and draws tears.

How do stars seem to fail,
and snow crystals turn sad.
And the weight of tommoorrow,
is (becomes) almost more than a strong
heart can bear.

I wish to hear the music of my sorrow,
the strand woven within the pain,
of beauty, joy, bright fireceness.
How the thing that feels lost,
feels when the loss is not forefront.
Why sadness is love, joy, happiness.

What voice gives my sorrow,
what does it sing with.
Though my heart be the instrument it plays,
where are its lungs?
Where?

From the depths within me.
From the breaths that I take,
it fashions the cutting of a dull knife,
with each heave of my ribs.
A knife made of me, for me.
This is too sad.

This is happiness. Was/is.
I am my unfolding,
and my own collapse.

So then, have I learned,
that the tenor of my sorrow,
is my ownvoice.

It is soft this thing
and creeps into our heart
sheer as fabric light glistens through

in the dark, it is light, as a feathers touch
in the day, warm like gentle sun
in the rain it soothes, a balm to sadness
in the cold, it warms from the core

but when the wind twists
this soft soft thing
becomes a cord that turns our heart (knots?)
like the washerwoman wringing clothes

what does she want from us

I watch her sure strong hands
I hear the cry which she elicits
as she works her work
cleaning the clothes we wear in this world
cleansing them, in her bitter cold water
she shows no age, I can guess
but goes about her task with quiet dignity

what does she wring from us but tears
what more can we give when we feel broken
where can we go to escape her ministrations
where do we go, when we come to the other side

I sat and watched the washerwoman work
All serene and involved
her hands are sure
I wondered how
how can she see such heartache and not weep

I pondered at night upon this woman
thinking, until sleep

I watch the washerwoman
Sometimes she watches me
What is she seeing

I come now gently to you lady
I pass my flesh to your hands
The pain is enough to break me
The grief my blood flowing out
It flows
It flows

I flow out

I am released

I am released
I am found
I am here

Gently soak my heart in a stream
Gently dry it now
Your’s are the hands strong and sure
You are the one who knows
how and
why

exposed but not seen
my
skin in fractures
peeled back
at the
edges

veinous mythology
descriptions of all
sepia archetypal scenes
and vertigo

twirling down
tumbling
into the
glassy pool
silver
landing
and lost within

I
swallowed
become gone

un visible
story story
story
end