Tagged: the Self

A Love Letter

it feels like a good time…
candles already lit, so
no presumptuous
candle lighting

some of the hourglass
sand is stuck. I wonder if
this like time, then
throw up my mouth a little

but what place other than
a poem to talk about time?
or sand? or being stuck? plus
I am concerned about my hourglass

it’s meant to be 30 minutes
but with sand stuck to the glass
is it quite? how much
time am I getting?

is it the same sand each time?
or does new time replace it?
it’s hard to tell – I flip it
just to see you buried

the Angel of Forgetfulness
blesses me. The Angel of White
Dimples
rebuilds herself

whole temples in her honor
could this be the time
when all of the sand
falls through? and

Forgetfulness retrieves
her blanket?
will I remember having
said yes to this, this life

and potentially others?
what did I see up there
that meant
enduring a human body

was it your body? It could
have been your body
was it something that needed
to be done?

have I done it?
can I keep doing it? is there any
question but the one I have already
answered yes to…

…is this a good time? 

Activity

I am writing again, which
feels like the wrong thing
behind me
there are thousands of figures

symbols for lost time
like a chair is not its word
“chair” a person
is not his name

nor is he what he leaves
behind
he is not named
“gunk in corners”

though he resides there
with no need for sitting, writing
now he sinks
where chairs were

leaving behind residue
like ink
on the paper
at night

Lime Rinse

maybe I never
in the first place

jelly down a sea of me
me me me

me as I changed
into me again

over and over
over? it continues

through sleep
I am pulled down

tighter, so that you
can be stitched up

I am upside down to you
therefore, to me

The Point I’m Trying to Make Is

it starts out as a thought
which is to say

the only thing
between nothing and thought
is me

what am i mostly?
tonight i caught a knife
after i dropped it

at first i felt impressed
that is not unlike
an immediate thought

a knife
falling through the mind

i’d rather have a spoon
an egg

the things i feel second
thirdly about

to balance my egg
down this botched,
carnivalian raceway

keeping the spoon straight
with my mind

i’d avoid the knife-jugglers
who are looking
directly at me

their points connected
umbilically
to my sternum

it’s like my body knows
it will die that way
in some freak accident

there is one long
accordion squeeze
of life

you leave your egg
in a basket
at the end

a Curse

there’s water to drink from
above the carcass

and seasons bringing courage
under spell of delusion

is it winter? there are still
mosquitoes. their larvae twitch
from room to room

and tadpoles remain tadpoles
in their comfortably
sized ponds

having no reason to change
they do not
as I have not

until I see long legs
step out, away
the whole thing moves

the known world
seems
noticeably smaller

and there isn’t enough room
for what I feel like

in an otherwise
happy life

The Land of Places to Stop for a Moment

still misplacing the allotted granules
an expected &

unopened door

i remember things i’ve thrown
in a way
that places them
back together

giantess, dinner plates, souls
i have looked
for deposits
inside of

under the guise
of not giving up

there is nothing inside us

we are whatever ledge
on which
we place
our time

The Need to See, and Be Seen, Both

A group of hikers stare in the distance
as something stalks, then pounces, then
comes away empty handed, or clawed, or
pawed. Someone asks, “Is that a lynx?”
But the group says, “No. No no, no.”
The question curls in a path around them,
often over more trying terrain, as if there is
a distance their recognition can reach, an
actual discernible radius. The hikers wear
bright vests and glittery bear-bells. They
strain their eyes. Finally one of them says,
with real authority, “Oh, III see what it is.”
The others say, “Ya. Ya ya, ya.”