written By
Not strange with myself,
I am at odds with
this chair & the warm air
rising from the pavement
outside the window.
Let me sit here, figure out
what I am about.
Nameplate enough for
identity, feet sore
enough for reality.
Trace the field of cosmic dust
in the wake of my creations,
pieces of karma assembled
with invention, inserted with
a twist & hook into the matrix.
Move at steady, measured pace,
look as distance grows between
these fingertips & the objects,
rarely shades of skin, to touch,
tentatively, for some definition.
How swiftly the promise fades
into once-was, leanness grows
into largeness, the mind into
disrepair. Let me sit here,
awhile, looking for my tools.
