We machine… – (a haiku sonnet)


We machine sadness;
hone the lives of our knives and 	
sharpen our dances

to slice into the
watery selves of these silks
that we wave about.

We choreograph 
the movements of alphabets,		
shading the letters

with all the wet and
hard and broken things that we 
find in our insides.

And then? We cry out, spilling
them onto the floor.




NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #5 — Rest



Rest



The heart spends more time 
not beating than beating.

The organ that keeps us alive
spends more time resting

than working. Go ahead. 
Hold your breath. Listen 

to it rest. Listen in that space 
between the beats. Hold it 

in your hands. Feel it come 
to rest and seize it softly. 

Feel it move and let it go 
quickly. Don’t hold your 

breath. Listen to the rest. 
This is how the moment goes.

There is just this rhythm 
of life and death. The first 

one-two of every pair 
of heartbeats. Between 

every squeeze of life lies 
a small and quiet death.

This is only the smallest 
of truths. This is only on 

and off. Between beat and 
beat there is only this silence.

Between flex and flex, 
there is only the rest.








Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....



such that the moment



The truth is 
such that the moment 
we turn our 
backs on it 
it ceases to be the truth
that we thought it was.

The truth is 
such that the moment
we take our 
next breath it 
changes and it changes the 
breath that we just took.









Shadorma November, Day 6 (seven days late....)
(...or does that make it six?...)