the blade helpfully brings
little quantums of wind
in fan-fulls,

(debating if this room
or the air surrounding elm st.
is hotter) i sit

here

…and i know, i’ll see you…
born with pink toes, a lung, and brain -
getting stubbed, cut, and bruised

before

proving someone should love you.

* * *

“did you know david was born
where michelangelo built a shed around
that rubbish marble?”
likewise stardust envelops the pearl atman must be;

otherwise…

what is stubbed,
cut,
or bruised,

and how can one live
feeling how one can die?

* * *

the fold in the body is not

a cabin in the sky

because the empyrean prefers
the stirring

world’s
dancing words

more than the ever-stacked musting pages
the “cannot” stasis our eidolons
make hill the fields
(being buried beneath)

while flowers betterly
dew push through the bones of
simpler.

* * *

(one must learn the process
of forgetting)

my reason falters
in heat even sober
yet on the corner that stumbling
and mine are made the same
beneath the non-bias
moon nom noming
on and on

* * *

both the siren and swan sing.
misery and loneliness are not the same.

“a painting with the moon will never sell”
“what about starry night?”
“that’s the only one.”
are you going to read this poem?

* * *

there’s more i want to say

.
.
.