Thoughts felt like freckles
  • o28

    like a pillar of salt,

    a clump of salt cradle clasped in a hand

    i mingle with sweaty palms.

    a long Milkyway into eternities 

    and the slow burn of toast before its pop,

    are good enough to live for 

    before stopping to look back

    into reflective time’ s shadows

    and gusts of carbon forsaken ash.

    forever frozen in stony eyed nostalgia, 

    forever turned back 

    my fright soluble 

    in the palms of faithful unknowns. 

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  • 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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