the death of someone you barely knew; a strange faraway-ness they were never really there and now they’re gone
the death of someone you barely knew; an imagined grief colored and dramatized by your own private production house
what weird choices our births and our deaths what were you thinking, stranger within? why did you even bother?
was it fun, worthwhile, are you a repeat customer? or have you blocked these numbers and hidden your status, turned off desktop notifications?
condolences offered unmeant words knowing just this; these things only happen to people you barely know
You asked me for a metaphor And I told you about the broke down Indica Outside Gupta Handicrafts; It’s getting really difficult To be so cool and all These days.
You asked me for some tea, I said I’d make you some; But in the kitchen I couldn't choose Between the plastic cups And steel trays. I know it’s beautiful, I know it’s a tree, But it’s marked for demolition, Just like you and me And everything else These days.
You asked me for a joke, I said they operated for kidney stones But he died of intestinal cancer; Everyone’s jokes are mistimed And inappropriate These days.
it is easy to mistake an iris for a flower, to think it grows out of the ground, the caduceus of Electra’s daughter, in truth it floats about like a jellyfish, woodsmoke, a drop of ink, not yet dissolved, in water one morning it drew me in giant clouds, plunging waterfalls, riverine lines, ebbing and flowing, pulling me slowly into its open maw, a crested cathedral, licking me with its furry yellow tongue its rhythm remains gently purring in my breast, i often check my fingertips for traces of blue or purple, will it explode from within me like Warrant Officer Ripley’s Alien child, will it write poems in my name, wonder if the universe is dying, go for walks in the moonlight, will it then be easy to mistake a man for an iris?
Meteors and Matchboxes
The morning star in the East arisen, drives metaphor deep into the heart of my home, illuminating a candle, shows me how like a candle’s shadow I am; taking the shape of what I fall upon, now crooked, now broken, now winding like a snake, while my true nature ever like the candle remains; pure and straight, and dispelling darkness, if only some meteor were to fly too close to me, or if some crafty teacher were to distil his philosophy into a matchbox; I, too, am capable of Light