close
the curtain. I don’t need others seeing—longer hallways, many unclean rooms, an
overflowing mop bucket. I want to feel enveloped—in sensory darkness, taking my
place, would they if they could?
atop
a table sits a coin, I keep flipping it, the same way, with heads up, I get the
same answer each time; insanity!
a
woman told a man: “I know you so well, I hate the knowingness.”
over
a plate of sardines, with a loaf of bread, the craft of the immature craft,
sprung into visual.
I
can’t say much—a soul too much—watching, absorbing, saying too much.
I
roll dice, made of woodcuts, I used to obsess over dice. so many tiles,
sprawled out before traffic, I’m making a boat, made of tiles: trampled,
congested, hibernating tiles.
at
the beach, I see an island, it’s adorable—the grass is greener, moist, much
care invested in it—the life, said inside, would I give it, if I could? I don’t
have an answer.
I
have a predilection for most anything. so great the requirement for myself. I might
be projecting something particular to me, or ‘our kind,’ with florets of pain.
on
a sleigh, maybe, smiling, maybe, melancholic, maybe?
I
never experienced it, until it came. to look at self intensely. to stream into
a vision. to analyze one’s flesh. it seemed eerie. I addressed the issue
swiftly.
no
one knows that feeling!
