I do not like
polishing the tea pots.
My face, already
grotesque, reflected, distorted
even more in their surface.
I have nine books
borrowed from the library.
Still, I am reading the one
new book of poems
I found at the thrift store.
We don’t know
the length, the breadth,
the width, the height,
and certainly not the depth
of our unknowing.
“If you do something in the spirit of non-achievement, there is a good quality in it. So just to do something without any particular effort is enough.”
To make something of these times I
must make something so I will find
a frame in which to nail my thoughts.
I cannot beat this lone silence
and I cannot take this seedless
greening anymore, this yearning
growth that knows only down and in,
only dragging my thoughts into
the night where I cannot find them
though I remember having them,
remember how they felt if not
how they looked, remember them close
and warm, and thought them somehow grand
or at least telling at the time
I barely had them, but now? Now
I barely have them even less.
Now I am not sure if I have
them or if they have me. Now they
are lost in their own depths, swimming
silently in the rolling black
medium of their making. Now
they haunt me in their bare being
and unmake me and swim through me
and I will make nothing of them.
I’ve fallen off the
I’ve been draggin’ my ass but
enjoying the ride,
it well enough to
keep it up.
I’ll write some more, if thoughts fit
form and times permit.
Shadorma November, Day...something or other.....hermits aren't good at keeping
track of the days.