I’m
not sensei or guru or something of value—filled with value, sensei, and guru.
like
kung fu morals, coloring with time, graffiti to a past life.
a
Thai Chi soul, minding my business, aloof, for time is deranged. a couch on a
lawn, a goffer quite bold, a rabbit sitting in stillness; couldn’t believe it,
contrary to laws, beefing up his resilience.
never heard of a curio, just watching, never
touched a petroglyph, just looking. bless the soul, give it back, tell the Architect
to draw closer.
atop
a credenza, a cadenza is blazing, aside an antique pen, sits a wartime
portrait. days look like blasé flatness, art sinks into seams, the angle spins
into clarity—if for a minute. wouldn’t believe in raindrops, wouldn’t know what
she survived, wouldn’t believe her story. an inflated woman, over a century in
age, too many distinct numbers.
I
felt draperies. I was slain on carpet. never knew how humans give it all.
I
retrospect in airs, a futon pitch black, can’t imagine how it disappeared. holding
memories, it must have popped, it must have leaked into the rug. more paint to
fill in spots, more spackle to seal crevices, more pain to announce my future.
