A Jar of Marmalade
Thoughts felt like freckles
  • Downtown SF, three beers deep 

  • old, rich memories unretrievable to me. 

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  • o27 (to mum)

     My only love is on the moon,

    that which evades my heart’s harpoon.

    In nimble blossoming she wanes in sight 

    until in nostalgia’s might

    she tills out her love in full mooned flight. 

    Whether I spy her a winking 

    Or her sorrows’ amissing, turning her back from emotions 

    bleeding eye.

    On that moon my true love spies,

    On that moon my true love never dies.

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  • o26

    we live in a city of mirrors, but mirrors of solid flesh

    but also of translucence.

    dust drenched but soaked sublime 

    urbanity couldn’t be more inaccessible 

    to the sane

    but also to the insanity of surrendered serenity. 

    privacy of heart but intimacy of mind 

    and extroversion of voice

    trust nothing of what you see

    and become the author of the choreographed 

    comings and goings of the figures around 

    measured by inches or boroughs. 

    humble nature lives from afar,

    so still, 

    but come close to it 

    and see the quivering of a tree 

    and the static trembling of your reflection cast upon a lake

    but delight in how inconsequential clarity is

    how it does not exist, almost,

    and how this world swallows you instead of spitting you out. 

  • o25

    by corners creased forgotten by a sea of wordless wrinkles,

    dim light suggests only the mood of two pm. 

    it has been a year and some change,

    it’s silly to use the word change

    when movement is what i feel lately, never change.

    i anticipated grief 

    to properly perform my part 

    in the drama that was her cancer

    so that this play would extend or reach its perfected end

    so that it would cease into the unconscious,

    the melting pot of fiction’s oblivion.

    to cry for a hypothetical was a possibility to snare reality’s nightmare. 

    to cry over her corpse, my lungs heaving challenges to her still ones, was a fundamental break in the script 

    it was the break in the fourth wall 

    where i could not will myself to play hope. 

  • all things missed and all things home. 

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  • winnet:

    Patti Smith by Steven Sebring. Coney Island, 1996.

    Missing Mapplethorpe.

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  • o24

    terror of disappearance and frozen by appearance, 

    the leanings of tomorrow 

    that could be ours

    under gravity’s thumb. 

    threadbare, stand trees


    in droopy eyed mutterings

    bracing the gradual, leaf measured alarm 

    of forbearance 

    composing decomposition 

    eye replaces the voids with 

    what was

    whilst the heart remembers what was whole.