Survival propagates all existence

Inhale, exhale, devour, exclude

My purpose lies not in the plumage

In the masquerades of a subtle inquiry

But in the beak and talons

Of an intractable curiosity

I am not enlightened enough to say

That I live fully but I live by my design


Inky and indecisive my lips retreat

Into the asylum of inarticulate verbs

Beguiled by the scent of incense

I reposition my hands

Palms alabaster and rose

Like lotus blossoms


Heart a blackened canary perched

In starless holes of sophic exhaust

Colors mute and amorphous

Underneath a domesticated flesh

I abandon somatic concerns


The eyes summon scarlet and sea

A mechanical muse oiled for insertion

I know these verses, these doubts

The way they churn deep within the tracts

Of an invertebrate spine

I let them flow through me, unbroken


I don’t want to write of loneliness

Of those absences which elongate

Into chasms murky and fathomless


I don’t want to speak of genius

Of scantily clad memories

Rolled into the cylinder

Of a festering cigarette


I don’t want to turn another page

To calcify another sacrificial heart

With the sympathetic saline

Of a shared humanity


I just want to drift shapeless

On the periphery, noncommittal

Observing without accusation


A moment held selfishly

Underneath the tongue

Conversations with self

Too intimate for composition


Today I didn’t feel like writing or reading, I just wanted to be. I am in a quiet, mellow, and meditative mood