falling from grace

he loves me
he needs to not
i think this when
i have the pot.

lol. or on the pot
i think of glue
they way it wants
to stick to you.

joint compound makes a mess on my favorite pants.
i spank it, smear it, wash it down with water.
it laughs, made of teflon and brie.

the thing is i'd like to be able
to swell out all this angst and be done with it.
you tell me how i should be over him
and i think man, that's so true. how
do people short circuit something
that meant so much to them. it's like
burning pomes instead of losing them.
i guess tho i'm a masochist of sorts
i can't hold the match myself.


somewhere out there. somewhere
it's still alive and breathing
a form of immortality that haunts
like a past life you want to want
to regress to. take refuge in .
hold tightly as smoke in lungs
on their last inhale.

coherent manipulation of the spun

match strike mannequins.
a forest of smoke, mirror and squirrel.
inside of the torture, more torture.
rest in the arms of the burnt.
only for a magnetic moment, the struggle
for release like a prime directive written
by a sadistic ironist. inside of beauty
more beauty. taking form in spin-orbit
interaction. giving form a quantum snack.
asking form 'why is this required ?'
meanwhile, the washer spins on rinse.
water follows itself to ground, becomes atomic.
like a metaphor for itself, read years later
and with the aid of guitar and mandala.

poem as gesture

i wrote daily with my brushes
the water became heavy
molten but not steam, there was
so much heat held inside
it flowed like glass after cooling-
millenial grapes.

you stand on the sidewalk watching
as i dip the brush into the bucket
your gaze changes the character
of what i was going to say:

something about want and need
colliding with atmosphere

something about the way cherry blossoms
fall in japan, a place i'll never go, a tree
i've yet to see

my wrinkled hand is steady
the paper is concrete
language emerges
surprising all the watchers,
myself the most.