That's all for now

New news by the minute
this just in
flashing signs, blaring eyes
Headless longing
That's all for now
Over

Not anything in particular

Grey is not a particular thing by itself
But the result of all spots of shade and light
A mule is not a creature of its own will
But a breed of a jack and a mare
There are some things, and some beings- touchable
Some untouchable
Like air, like pillow-talk
that are not anything in particular
Not definable, deeming or destined to take a form
For themselves into the vanity of other shapes
And other beings
Some thing simply do not fit in the mixture
Of particularities
not puzzling some places are misshapen and some simply lost
others lack care or genuine will, make gaps in their place
the gaps in the jigsaw are the only natural part of its
existence,
Resist the blanks and your fall will bruise
resist the color and fear your one-shaded skin
it is not an equation of perfection, the art of making life
A possibility
But it is an effort of understanding,
things that do not fit any particularity
And by this there are entities
Like me
that are nothing in particular
perhaps, a thread of all generics

Porcelain Mask

Nothing is more perfect than the face of a porcelain doll
Eyes round and gazing
Lips red and kissable
There is nothing like a doll for perfection
Slim waist, full covered lashes
A doll is yours by your touch
it is it's owners property
yours to do as you please
Shake it, break it, walk over it
Or place it in an old trunk
display it like candy to mark others jealous
All yours is what you can control-
Nothing that's lifeless is beyond you
and so is she, who lives behind the sycamore
And wails atop the river
For she, like a doll, you claim yours

What a doll, they used to tell her
And she'd wondered why
Would someone compare her to something so small
So inanimate, so plastic
But it takes her long enough to dress
and long enough to realize
behind the cold porcelain
Lies the answer.

Standing straight

Don't try to work from point A to point B 

if you still cannot stand without crutches

those who'd unassumingly stand too close, 

are shadows in disguise

wary from their pushes, sideways.

These hold your crutches 

while you access the disabled toilet

a place you've reached solely by yourself-

but they'd leave your wooden leg carved in initials

by the front door of your car- be careful with your step 

even if its a one legged hop by now-

balance on one foot is better than a curse of the

evil eye 

Procrastinating tunes

On the tape, some words and humming -the list

past midnight

these tunes

a possible reality, a possible compositio

tomorrow.

Findings

Material is never lost

it changes form, it takes 

the shape of other items

rocks, lights, sounds.

Opening a sock drawer is her relief

a can of worms, like rush

like rain swivels round her

insignificant realities:

- a stone from Wordsworth's garden

- a pinch of dirt from Shakespeare's house

- an old pen

- an old notebook, half full, half expecting to be touched

- a lighter and a smell of someone, a man, miles away

it is all the things she finds that refrain the tune of 

 her north, the time of sailing

the time of living, 

a time when she was removed from time

from the claws of all the steps she lost and still loses

every moment she glances back when she sees terror's red eye

flashing

like a bear on a hunt for sweetness.

  

turn of rain

She knows the trees start dying

like everything else, she only knows the leaves start

dying with a little mercy each day

with the change of hours the leaves just

turn void,

it is the turning of the season:

it is the turn of rain

flood, mercy