Sometimes serious

when i was young, my mother showed me a scalpel that she used to cut wounds out of people’s bodies. we warmed it up and used it for thermocol cutting to create delicate objects, carving slowly, birds, insects that exit for the unwanted, the carved out the excess could have been this surgical i had not known. i try to practice this precision while letting you go. an atomic differentiation between our spirits.

when a tree is struck by lightning electricity will pass from its tip to toe, in the moist vessels under its bark split its bark outwards in one loud crack burn that which was wet in the rings inside the contour topography of its years. when a tree is struck by lightning a purple-white flash will find ground through its roots kill it immediately a tree, whole within unstable seconds but it will take years for the decay to show for a tree to become rotten wood. when a tree is struck by lightning a temperature five times hotter than the sun shall shock it; this duration will be nothing, in its large life but enough amperes to change it from an object of biology to an object of physics. green leaves, will still live after the thunderstorms the flash fires the electrocution, and the communication from a cloud; for a while. things are not really understood until the right metaphors arrive. i have thought of many: driftwood in a river, snowflake ...

we are left, out cold without our very own lies that protected us

whether your heart breaks slowly, or in one shot no hustle whether it decomposes, with fungus and decays like dead muscle or unravels like a sweater smelling of mothballs or lives for another 600 years gradually blurring like stone carvings or quietly explodes, like a nebulous supernova or loses its flavor, like a bulb of jasmine tea or rusts like what once was your house key or dissolves like salt in the sea  or flies away like an adolescent bird or reduces sacrificially, like sandalwood or melts in a furnace or rots in a landfill or is recycled in a large system of municipal and diplomatic negotiations with countries, shipping companies, and profits, in order to bring it back somehow in another form so that it can continue living and beating perhaps as itself or as any other matter, treated with chemicals and talk to make it work within a narrow range in the spectrum of mental states, the walls of this range closing tightly ar...

i want to show you how tiny flecks of snow  that have now started to land, very slowly,   melt very fast - tell you what i learnt about the three types of snowflakes.  the ranges of impermanence the types of melt, in northern winters. the frost on white-bearded autumn leaves, that you told me were all  dead explicitly  in your language how knuckles get chafed  by just being exposed in this temperature i want to tell you where i’ve been and what was exciting and who i’ve met not in a formalized communicative transaction but in pedestrian and boring passing speech  where the importance of  each nugget of communication is not like blooming flowers but indifferent, and stable like grass i want to tell you the lines that  gave me pause, and read them to you many times over and over again as if just your hearing them, would make them doubly meaningful i want to detail the contours...

you see my heart is overheated now. in this reclamation island on this crude coastal sand drying straw that was grass - there is now unbearable heat no matter how many dips i take into the salty ocean all that springs up is ring-tabs of beer cans poly bags worn pieces of glass and other light garbage of everyday but no relief. in guarding this geography the habitants of this mind forget to want to eat and sleep to have desire. i have become an impatient bait for the politicians of the psyche who fish with a hook and feed for proof i am that soapbox you can use to remind yourself and your friends to not be miserable despite having everything like me ______ an everyday search for enthusiasm feels like an entire country has run out of news stories and the papers print blank sheets to circulate with the tea and a view of the morning the boulevards of pink sakura orange gulmohur canopies fuschia bougainvillea rain that is a solid object in air a...

what is this new low that the self has gracefully reached at where adjusting has paid the price that used to be paid by holding tightly on to one another when has this unbridled restlessness of the spirit  like a dark unwieldy northern winter entered which manifestations of assurance will this heart forever miss forever tie-dying itself a new shade of prussian blue as brittle as lapis but as deep.