Centered, a Centered Self was the first title I tried. Worldly, together, not too sanctimonious.
Maybe true, in my room of instruments, the tapestry and swirls of incense. Brands of laid back peace and all truth told, I roll a beautiful joint.
Trust in the meaning I make from the smoke.
Your skin IS too beautifully brown to risk forgetting your ID.
How ideas and viewpoints transform and change. The privileged fucking arrogance of even having an ID, a talisman of luck until it isn’t.
It’s easier to slip into thinking time is the enemy. Fuck you, 2018! News, a micro-era with my father, my dad’s fingers on painted bars with chipped paint, plate glass; my friend irradiated to the core to kill the disease there, finally factored down, decisions that end in dust.
So I suppose that’s an elaborate excuse for sharing block.
Just been asking the Grief what she thinks. She liked your poems better the last times he was in jail, last time loss set the focus loose. I know Grief will leave again soon enough, gathering her things in groups and setting out her packing cubes.
Origami talent. Shaping butterflies, cranes, joints, words. Always tempted to slip in a joke.
But what I see and say is vector enough.