halfway trying to learn a half-dead language

smudges of past unicycles

It’s come and won’t again.
She should get a journal,
gather the day on the end of her pen
like candy floss
and push it into paper
like a scar

Else she’ll be dead before she’s noticed
But she’s got a headache and didn’t we all just used to
walk and eat and talk and eat

Is life short or long?
She thinks she’ll let it go on
Like a game of scrabble

Counting ways to the number of kittens

I thread a thread of language through a wormhole routinely

The insistence of today

I may have watched too many crime shows
but now when I go out I look for cameras
and think about living in a Surveillance Society
and the life of all this tape before it gets recycled

“Sick Man Back to Yogya” is the graffiti I see scrawled on the side of a building on Gejayan St. I don’t know who Sick Man is or whether it is good that he is back in Yogyakarta, but I appreciate the effort of self-expression in this often reticent and self-censoring society.

ox-blood skies but I meant well

words shift and re-form scenes from pirandello

verily, verily, verily, verily
life is buttercream

Petals everywhere as she watches the Mexican dancing daisies high on the wall. A rose pink blush to them as she sees their artificial counterparts scattered backstage where the new chap confuses Sleeping Beauty and Giselle. He loves me he loves me not with a quartet of prince’s each with a bloom to offer for take or toss. a missive of love. perhaps with memory future in a mirror I arrive beside you holding a fragrant bouquet. Leafing through the pages of a Scottish poetry anthology, it all comes flooding back as I cup a palm to catch the tears.’left the thorn’ beneath a fingertip discs of scarlet