yet another season passes

cold winds blow and between
buildings i can feel the shock
of another

friendship falling to time. did
time make agreements with
forgetfulness

or is everything that ends
in bone spurs done with
volition?

when the sun rose slow
and ached as it pulled
only just

high enough, my friend
laughed again and wond-
ered how

i keep forgetting everything.
how i forget the green
grass and

how i forget the summer
dust. see it now whistling
in the cobble

stones. i can’t keep my
mind on straight, i tried
to whisper.

you can tell the skill-
ful life by the flowers
it will bloom,

the Buddha whispered
again and again and ag-
ain, and

to count the times
your sorry mind
has tallied the times
and shadowed
itself
in chalk and lye?

so what can i make of
the smoke around my
fingers and

the browned out vines
that tap tap tap on my
frosted

windowpane?

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an entry from months ago

this year i will be disappointed less
finding myself staring at blank ceilings less
wondering why i’m here less
wishing i could just put it together less
and just letting it all happen anyways
for my sin grows in the cracks of driveways
drought and cement and pesticide be damned

before my hands could recognize yours

before this shore was torn
from the sun and the moon,

before my hands
could recognize yours,

here is where the thread of the day
blends with the stitching of the night,

where the earth covers herself
with oceans of grass and tides of echos.

like the way the snow recognizes
the early winter wind,
like the way the water
recognizes all things in turn:

hold my hand
now
remember
we were here
when the world first was born.

who are you when you are ruminating at 2am

and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.

such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
goaded on
and on
and on.

so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured

not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.

this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,

dye me now
and count my bones.

we can be everything the moment
says we should be
instead.