Thole

From the faucet, a droplet.
I cupped my fingertips together
supposing I could accomodate
a body fluid and cold, wet.
Go and it goes. Push tighter
and it goes. My palms overlap,
it goes. Soluble -my skin,
the soap, and within, my soul.

After the Other

There is always someone else.

Before or after, the wind at the back door,
banter go the branches, a blackened chatter
where the moon watches over, glowing.

That man is laughter. That man is your lighter
when you need nothing else but fire. Collider,
they called her, whenever she would bring
a steady face to dinner -pretty she would say.

After or before, the glass and its watery core,
firm sugar, stored in its center, the ice carrier,
mine and yours, lips like lemon rind pores.

There is always someone else.

The Zooffice Episode 12: Zoobooking!

The Zooffice Episode 11: The gift That Keeps On Giving

The Zooffice Episode 10: Napping!

In Telling

An old Cherokee was teaching his grandchildren about life. He said, “A battle is raging inside me - it is a terrible fight between two wolves. One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego. The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
The old man looked at the children with a firm stare. “This same fight is going on inside you, and inside every other person, too.”
They thought about it for a minute, and then one child asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee replied: “The one you feed.”

Staging

So I never wrote a letter when I told everyone I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.

I breathe vapour, pouring into the air, lifting, pirouetting; it's a thread
-a narrative read to her, body reposed, pillowed head,
lying down later in bed. Later now isn't later dead, it's before then.

I had hoped that you would write my letters, read them to me and
to my friends; handle my voice, my sound like a dust that travels
along highways of wind, zephyr whirlpool, you the ultimate listener.

The congregation of sound: letters read upon a silver salver, dipped
in dramatic timbre rose above the sheets they dove under before.
Lifted her legs like the crescent points of that cheesy moon, flakes
before the bedsheets, before there came my voice echoed in pencil.

Lines and lines. Lines and lines more. Lines and lines some more.

So I never wrote a letter when I told myself I would.
I had nothing to say then and nothing now.