A crow caws at my dawn remembering a picture of absence, a woman gone to wall for decorating a living room.  A crow on the wall cannot be mom to eat rice. Our images cannot eat rice in words.  Images cannot eat rice, only words.

We have another image of ourselves , fleshed out of my bones , poor nightly creature of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of mind. We have other men with rolled shirts staring from ancient space, not yet knowing my own coming, that meant his own going from all space in time.There was space only for one of us.

All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after real things are gone except inside sleep.

Cold in the head

Infinite is too large a thing and you are scared to shit and the sky expands like sea and the world is shit scared. Later , you are too scared in the body below and mind expands to much in skull. A skull is just a hollow home.

Wind expands inside the skull hole as in an eerie storm at sea. Infinite is too scary to think especially in the hollow of the skull . Infinite is the sea’s continuity ,a hum in the holes of skull ,especially if you have a cold with sea-like hum at night.


Day after you walked with the throat full of fear and a sweat of being ,food was a body in its disorder. Water filled its throat of dry river .An equilibrium might have been perturbed. A dawn’s dog walked a beach road unmindful. Dogs tail was in total disequilibrium walking ,as if in orange marathon.

A man stood near the stone dragon and made his solar supplication. It was your dawn, before and after poem, for the sea to hurl its waves at my day.

A walk skipped shines less by sun in a temporary equilibrium of body.

Early in November

From the seaside, I announce to the world that my old body of earth is all of a piece. A piece of paper lets the body live, while a piece of sea is its nightly sound.

We now drink water to stream a body while mind needs a daily poem to live. We look down on the earth to continue to live, its water continues to to run flesh on bone.

Body is getting closer to the poem’s end, its lies progressing to the epigram. December which is still a month away is already whitening the branches. Apples seem loosening in them. Wonder why it is so early this year.


Come to the darkness of the confessional above the parapet wall, in the sky beyond the waving of trees , some rustling papers ,below the basement of yesterday’s school and touch the poets, between their words, between folds and smell their moth balls where they had lain tucked in their sheets.

Write chunks of white poetry on black night. Your poetry must be of your narcissistic self morbidly touching the way the tree waves in your darkness, a schoolgirl laughs in sleep ,over yesterday’s homework in a waving paper below a basement, between pictures of gods.

Poetry is confessional, some redness in face looking into crevices to let things not sleep. But sleep alone will deliver up your confession as you turn to your side to face a blank wall where beginning , middle are not pictured and the end turns out to be a breath, a lack .


We play on fine sensibility and logic. We look in spaces between our words and words are best approximations. Now we play along with the artists who had their own approximations that tended to infinity not stopping.

They reach approximate pie value but not its core beauty that is truth deep in ocean, surrounded by tiger. The tiger is meager approximation in a blue ocean with a rocking boat while the parents tended to infinity.

Beauty is not truth, only tends to it ,when you divide it by your nothing. Like parents it tends to your infinity. Your truth is infinity’s not stopping, tending to it, divided by your zero, the spaces in words lapsed in time.

(recalling the beautiful movie The Life of A Pie)