There is no longer a light,                                                      
for a long time, well, it’s been hard to cope.                                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

My, I remember that June night                                          
long ago when I wished to elope.                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                      

How­ I'd like to end this plight,                                  
all I do is sit and mope.                                                      
April­ will see that girl’s flight.                                            

I’m weighed down by this paperweight,                                                     ­ 
pain throbs inside, so fierce, no hope.                                          
There is no longer a light.                                                    

If only she came back into sight
instead of hidden under the microscope.                      
April will see that girl’s flight.                                            

Unless the torch again shines bright
and halts me as I fall down the *****,                                                  
There is no longer a light.                                                  
April will see that girl’s flight.

What does it mean to be a man?
My heavy mind sits on this question
Like a paperweight.

My dad left.
Bi-polar disorder really ****** my mom over. But can you blame all of this on his illness? It seemed like he had a willingness to manage this. But a pill? That was too much. Take the meds and he could "wind up dead." But without them his head winds up instead until he breaks and he bends everything that he can.

Bend this family until it breaks.

What does it mean to be a man?
It means stepping up to the ******* plate.

My heart is a bookend.
My heart is a paperweight.
My heart is a pencil sharpener, a cd player, and superglue
My heart is an atlas
My heart is an aviator
My heart is an Appalachian
My heart is a rodeo clown, the town jester, and a fabulous cook.
My heart is a survivor.
My heart is a tornado
My heart is a lone wolf
My heart is many things, and it is always, always yours.

I can no longer be lost

Among the stars

Wishing to shine

More brightly than others

Never content in my own

Light


When I have finally realized

That it is no longer the time

To light up a starless sky

In this age of dreams

Bright than a thousand suns


For there are trinket souls

Of a rare and fragile beauty

Like corals in a paperweight

Abandoned by a world

Mindlessly chasing transient

Glamours


I cannot sow every seed

In this spring of an evermore

Inexperienced yet happier world

Of self-fulfillment


I cannot bring the sun

To every shadowed

And unfortunate being

Yet to be blessed with the

Summer of a much

kinder world

  

I cannot save every leaf

Falling soundlessly  

Within this autumn of a

Wizened universe


I cannot shield every

Hungry soul from

This wintry world of

Indifference


But I see a trinket soul

Around me, around

All of us

Fading, almost invisible

Withering and suffering


They are beautiful

But not glamorous

So no one praises them

Like they do to the others

Around these glass souls


They are not poor

Not hungry

Not visibly sick

Nor in desperate

Need of care

So no one ever

Rushes to their side


So they've build a wall

Around themselves

Without doors

Not that they don't

Want anyone to knock


It's just that they know

No one will knock

And deafening silence

Suffocates them


And they can’t stand

Being overlooked

By the seekers

The seekers of

The brightest and darkest

Stunning brilliance and

Obvious sorrow


Some of them feel like

They need the whole world

To love them to death

And no attention is ever enough


But, no one can really

Handle the weight of

The universe

The weight of a billion

Judging eyes on their

Already vulnerable and

Solitary shoulders


They have so much love to give

But they don’t know how to give

Those that already have enough

Couldn’t care less for them


Those that also built a wall

Around themselves

Cower to be broken

By equally fragile mirrors

Of themselves


Most of them have turned to hate

They despise this indifferent world

That have rejected them

Even when the world have done

Nothing to them


Like the empty glass shells

They have become

They project their inner

Bitterness upon every

Living soul

Even those that are hurting

Invisibly just as much as

Them

So the world stayed away

From each and every

Glass child

As it seemed that

There is no cure

For an unseeable illness

Spreading among those

With healthy and able

Bodies


And I was one of them

I wasn’t exactly sick

Mentally or physically

I was just angry

Stubborn

Unhappy


I tried to fight the world

And despised everything

Threw my tantrums

And begged for love

While being the least

Lovable person


And then something happened


I wouldn’t say I burst through my wall

I wouldn’t say I tore it down completely


But, I found my mirror

I found another glass being

That seemed bitter on the outside

But held so much sweetness

Ready to burst through the shell

Yet afraid to be wasted on

Another bland or bitter soul


I gave it all of my love

Even if it’s like artificially

Earning that love through

The looking glass

Loving myself in the process


I never broke both of

Our walls

Yet, I learned to be

A little happier

I learned to love the world

Just a little bit more

Not because I was for once

Or ever above everyone else

In this world

But I was at last a more

Significant part of a little universe

I wasn’t never the sun in anyone’s

Heart

But I like to think I was a moon

In the starless dream of nights


And

At last I was in possession

Of a trinket soul

Beautiful and sweet

That might never light up

The sky

But it finally

For once,

Lit up my whole world

Dancing by,
A dead eyed darling,
As passersby cry out her praises:
"Such energy!
Such passion!"
She shrugs out a smile
As her shoulders start
Collapsing in on themselves.
Wear long sleeves
To disguise decaying flesh
And frankincense and myrrh
To disguise inevitable death,
Shaking hands with toothy monsters
And hand-made paperweight professionals
Who enter the threshold of accidentally
Pulling off a frail finger.
Pinned to a board of ages,
Chronically captured chronologically wrong:
"You seem so much older! You are so mature!"
Placing, onto fifth-grade-science-project bones,
A corset of expectations and
A garter of gold,
The tiny bird of a girl
Can't hear her songs over the
Sound of her body giving up.

Bury your wishes for me next to my corpse.

you know that euphoria
misshapen twisted circumstances
my beloved aquatic relevance
drowning in remnants abandoned utopia

a dreamless state
unfurnished minds defined
those ******* their sickening sake
of whatever hell inclines

I sit in dread
glancing at rain gone sour
with paperweight for a head
death shall toll thy hour

I have lost my eyes
the sucrose in my hearth
an addict drink to realize
this infested dearth

you wrote a poem once about how i was a flower and you were a monster and you dropped your grape juice on my white peddles
you spelled petals wrong
and that bothered me
but the idea that i was beautiful enough to be somebody's muse
well
i was willing to overlook the fact that you weren't good with hearts, so of course your faults with words meant very little to me
i dreamed in purple once
and grape was the taste on my tongue when i woke, which was silly
because your poem didn't really say anything about knocking a glass onto me like a paperweight to watch me suffocate as its juicy contents stained me violet
i just thought it sounded lovelier as a white lie
like you didn't mean to hurt me and it was just an accident

you told me later you made me a flower because they are at the mercy of whoever plucks them from the garden
and that's when i knew that you knew you had bruised me purple on purpose
i just don't like to think about the part where you are a monster

her grandmother’s hand feels like an overripe peach and there’s not much behind her glossy eyes. the nursing home smells like disinfectant and the powdery smell of old women. jane tucks her feet under her chair as she watches the vacant stare on her grandmother’s face and wonders if her grandmother will notice when she stops coming. the soft buzz of television and the chatter of nurses feels very far away and the room feels too big for the two of them. jane’s grandmother raised her when her own parents were too drunk or coked up to remember they had even had a daughter and her first, second, third stroke had left her soft and empty. jane kisses her forehead, leaving a strawberry-colored mark on her grandmother’s pale skin and she slips a paperweight from the nurse’s desk into the pocket of her dress

the coat is heavy and camel-colored and hangs off jane’s small figure, nearly obscuring her. the collar nestles under her ears and she’s warm, even in the chill of the dusty second-hand shop down the street, with the watery-eyed cashier who watches her suspiciously and waits for his cigarette break. the weight is comforting and she hugs it in closer to her before removing it and stroking the shiny polyester lining. jane waits a few minutes before she pulls out a bundle of carefully stacked bills and quietly buys the overcoat without making eye contact.

at home, jane’s neat handwriting fills the last page of the journal she’s been keeping for the past few months. from her desk drawer she pulls two more of the same. the details of her life coat the pages and it occurs to her how small, how ordered, how utterly unremarkable her days have been. this elicits no real emotion and jane pours herself a half glass of wine and lies on the couch, fully clothed, and breathes so slowly her chest hardly moves. she wonders if it will hurt.

she places the coat on her neatly-made bed and stands in front of her bathroom mirror. her hair is long enough to touch the waistband of her skirt and it tangles over her shoulders and back like a mass of seaweed before she gathers it into a ponytail and snips it off, just beneath her ears. there’s nearly ten inches of her soft hair in her fist and in the mirror jane looks sharper and meaner than before. she takes the same scissors and cuts a slit in the hem of the coat and drops the hair into the space between the lining and the thick wool. next falls the paperweight, the journals, a bottle of pills she will no longer take twice daily. the coat is sewn up with small, neat stitches.

down the road from the home is a wide stretch of anemic sand and silvery water. the breeze off the ocean tugs and twists the coat like the hands of insistent children yet jane walks solidly on, feeling more opaque than she has in years. the rocks along the beach are smooth and slightly warm from the sun and she slips the most beautiful into her pockets as she nears the sleepy waves of the shore. jane never stops walking. her shoes are the first to become soaked but soon the water infiltrates her hemline, her waist, her chest, her neck. the short strands of her once flowing hair float momentarily before the water slips over her head like a sheet. jane’s body does not float, does not struggle, does not resurface.

Announce that you love me. At least to your best friends. I can’t bear to think that I’m not your trophy to be proud of. I can’t accept that my ray of light becomes dimmer day by day. I can’t stand the thought of sitting like a tomb in your soul, camouflaging with darkness that engulfs all sense of love. I can’t swallow the fact your face didn’t spark when you said I was your everything. I can’t comprehend when my existence in your world ain’t shimmer like a dewdrop catching the sun.

Announce that you love me. At least to your siblings. I don’t want to stay timid in the darkest compartment of your heart. I refuse to admit that you ignore me in four days — summer, autumn, winter and spring; three days — yesterday, today and tomorrow; two days — day and night; one day — everyday. I deny that you don’t feel immortal anymore when I linger around you. I oppose the idea of maybe your love to me is paperweight.

Announce that you love me. At least to your heart. Do my picture still be your favourite wallpaper? Do your heart palpitates everytime you hear my name?  Do my warm embrace puts an end to your insecurities? Do your mind still replays our memories of spending time together when sun came out, and we were miles away from anywhere? Do. I. Actually. Exist. In. Your. Universe?

I never doubt my love to you. It is you who should stop underappreciating me, and start loving again.

i am higher than the sun
a million miles above the one
who controls the sky
i am a record keeper
a handler of snakes
and retribution is my middle name
i am palmistry
i am sandalwood
i am a refuge and a grave
i am a paperweight
i am a slave

i see the dream space opening and closing
its talking to me
she makes faces at the fading light of the stars
do we trust our visions or are we prisoners of reason
the faceless, the voiceless wanderers
drifting in underwater color schemes
concupiscent dreams
the netherworlds beckon to us
we can't help but heed their liquid calling
i am boiling in my bathtub
joining hands and hearts
we rub away the stars from our bodies
and come clean to ******* whistling
the meandering echoes
of our fantasies
in lands of allegory and unstained wisdom
remnants of our ancestors
dancing their embodiment
with slews of musical instruments
and brews of medicine and healing herbs
we are finding the magic in our icons again
like diamonds drifting between realities
the coming satisfaction is becoming less and less attractive
so you suggest we take a deep breath
and get back to making love

Part 1 Down the Rabbit Hole:

He had faith in exceptions
He was optimistic
He “believed in six impossible things just before breakfast”
and had his cake.
He mused of the bunny farm
and fought the jabberwocky in his dreams.
These things failed him.
He woke up, and was crushed with the mice
In a snap of revelation
and
Under the weight of truth.
He was shattered, along with the coral corpses
Of the paperweight

Part 2 The Paper Weight:

A coral in the glass paperweight
A hummingbird shielded by twigs
The fragile illusion
A naive illusion
“The beautiful illusion”
Quoth Marlow, our dear friend Charlie.
Through the looking glass
His world, the Poet’s world,
was shattered,
Not by “a sea of trouble”
Nor by words of a mature revelation
but by Silence.

Part 3 The Horror, The Horror:

The wrath and sorrow of the composers
Were expressed
In the requiem of silence.
The conductor threw his hand open
In the final flight of the dove
For the poet, the dreamer,
Who, and whose ballads and odes
Were silenced on the battlefronts of the nouveau era.
No one followed when he chased the seagulls.
No one answered his pleads and screams of wrath and sorrow.
In the end, there was only silence
For the poet, and his poetry.
To this he whispered:
“The Horror, the Horror”
And then
Nothing more.

pap
pap
pap

I can't breath
my stomach is bubbling
like hot cheese
on an fresh oven pizza

my legs feel skinny
I want to lean into a wall
the floor looks spinny
the wainscoting is squint

my vision is blurry
because...tears?
Why is there worry
in my middle?

I feel fine,
my mind is sound
this fear isn't mine
what’s it doing here?

What is this panic?
Fight or flight I understand,
but this is plain manic.
I need to go

at top speed
or maybe hide?
Either way, be freed
from this distress.

pap
pap
pap

Push someone over,
human shield that ****
reduce my exposure
to hyperventilation.

Shallow in,
shallow out,
I feel akin
to sprinting Mufasa

Pure distress
acute discomfort,
a proper mental problem. Nonetheless,
it’s strange to foresee the diagnosis.

It’s as if I’m watching
from someone else’s skin
as alligator clamps are botching
holding my physiology in.

A sunburn on my innards,
a paperweight within
you’d think I’d feel pride
for finally having something wrong.

Hypochondria being accurate  
the years of inventing doom,
suddenly isn't aberrant
those fabrications had substance.

Or maybe all these thinks
are symptoms in themselves
after sifting through piles of shrinks,
maybe I can finally get some help.

pap
pap
pap

Look at my pretty framed prescription,
doctor certified, messy handwriting,
this will take some decryption...
don’t worry, take your time,

this pathoreaction won't go away.
I’m told desolation
is a temperament set to stay
until after eighteen simple payments.

I’m inclined to reject treatment
of drugs that fiddle with the mind
I’d rather stay present,
continue inconsistency.

I would like to try narration,
see how many kilometers I can recall.
I can deal with frustration,
so let’s talk about my childhood.

Public transit without destination
sends me on a revere,  
an absence of crippling desperation.
I've found peace before

it was between yellow poles,
in the outside pocket
of a backpack on parole.
It smiled at me quietly.

pap
pap
pap

Apparently, it’s the small things
that help you deal with anxiety.

Suburbia greeted me with pale hands in my late teens.
She was a wasteland in a mini skirt; in its’ own right it could be called a Cave with Plato egregiously driving his brand-new Prius 90 miles an hour saying “this is really living as long as you don’t look back” and all you can do is nod your head vigorously because the twisted **** that had settled surreptitiously in your baby lungs was giving you daylight hallucinations. My endeavors didn’t end there when they should have.
There was something uncanny about the way streetlights gave you the eternal glare. Of creating ordinary neighborhood streets appear like you’ve been there before in a dream, in another body. In a dazed stupor the sounds of a television and a light coming from a garage is forgiving in your misguided attempts to be comfortable in a foreign space. It could almost feel like home when your repressed trauma keeps resurfacing while you’re trying to introduce yourself. Almost.
In these polite badlands with everything uniformed the people I met were always trying to stand out from the serene landscapes. Sitting in plaid couches I was giddy playing the nihilist. Rerun episodes of Portlandia playing but all I remember from that smoky room were brown pants that looked extremely crisp to the touch and I wanted to reach out my hands and see if they would crunch under the paperweight of my heavy palms. I didn’t but I’m sure they would’ve emitted the sound of potato chips being eaten in a frenzy.
When I wasn’t walking through dark rooms feeling through what could have been hallways, a family’s living room or the cool gates of hell I was meandering my way through drowsy parties where boys with the names like Dusty and Slaughter were prevalent. Each with their own bizarre story about how they stole their parents’ money one night and took off spontaneously. Driving all the way to Nevada with nothing but half a tank of gas and one pack of cigarettes. You could almost pinpoint their personalities by the type of cigarettes they smoked. Most of them holding different colored American Spirits. Had I been smarter I would have asked for a light and a smoke. Never mind that I was always deadly afraid that I had some undiagnosed lung disease and that asphyxiation was my biggest fear or that I had a pack of Marlboro black menthols in my purse that were over a year old. I found my corner sitting in a worn outdoors chair. The ones where the armrest comes built in with a cupholder. My beer ice cold sitting awkwardly sideways while I tried to consider why the host of the party was wealthy yet so hostile. My favorite party game was the one where I took hit after hit of joints being passed around until I was crazy glued to my chair and my brain started to feel like a lagoon that continued to melt into a Campbell’s soup I once had as a child. Everyone completely unaware of the horror that the house had become to me. Somewhere in the distance I was acutely aware of who I would go home with, why my ventures into the suburbs had sparked my intrigue in the first place. The only reason why I had endured feeling like a spider watching a **** film and why I had lost my virginity just a day before. I was a displaced specimen thinking about her ***** in a room of 30 people or more.

Lunch rush was hell for the new girl,
stacking foamed cappuccino cups
and stirring spoons in a broken-handled
bus tub while trying not to slip
on soft ice and discarded lemon
wedges. She took our mugs,
and told us about a guy

—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat
with his friend, comparing *** to work
over the rusted cabinet tracks
of his warped fork scraping
his egg-caked plate.
Dave's friend was leaned in
with a cocked grin waiting
for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,

which I'm guessing are all witty,
the funniest *******
things you've ever heard,
but there wasn't one
this time

because there's nothing funny about
a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight
of fat Dave and his brick
paperweight jammed in her back.

TELL TALE TALK

Shark's tooth
draws blood

( even though long dead )

a startled red
against the sharp whiteness

lost in a bric-a-brac
box of shells & things.

"Gotcha!"
grins the dead

shark's set of
choppers.

Baby shark
but a shark nonetheless.

I drip a trail
of red

across the Charity
shop

snap up
a tattered HUNTING OF THE SNARK

a battered
AT SWIM TWO BIRDS.

Here
a broken ballerina

on a jewellery box
( minus her music )

there
( I stop dead )

a used
soul

bruised
badly used

Godless
without guile

my fingertip traces my initials
on its dust

tarnished
without hope

immortal and unnoticed
amongst shark's teeth & shells.

I get
a SNARK & TWO BIRDS

for a pound
a piece.

The shark's grin
for a pound again.

"What do you want
for this old thing?"

I nonchalantly
ask

setting the soul
with great care

within the cage
of teeth

perched atop
the books.

"Being dying
to get rid

of that
for ages."

"It just sits there
staring at me!"

"Scares the life
outta me

to tell you
the truth

even though I don't know
what the hell it is!"

"Give us 42p for it
& we'll call it quits!"

I buy back
the soul

( my soul )

I had given away
with some old shirts and shoes

things I thought
I wouldn't ever be needing

. . .again.

But seeing it
discarded amongst shark's teeth & shells

I thought
twice about it.

Maybe
( perhaps )

I can use
it

for a paperweight.

Or a doorstop.

Sedulous

PRONUNCIATION:
(SEJ-uh-luhs)

MEANING:
adjec­tive: Involving great care, effort, and persistence.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin se (without) + dolus (trickery, guile). Ultimately from the Indo-European root del- (to count or recount) that is also the source of tell, tale, talk, Aug 9, 2010
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Poetry is the art of saying what you mean but disguising it. -Diane Wakoski, poet (b. 1937) and Dutch taal (speech, language).
USAGE:
"Elizabeth Bishop was sedulous, pernickety, quietly determined; she would work on poems for years."Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell; The Economist (London, UK); Nov 20, 2008.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
<strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><p>A beautiful thing is never perfect. -Egyptian proverb</p></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong>

the tinted weakness of late day.  the sound of a mother being driven into the child by its legal father.  biology as paperweight.  as bird hopping on earth.  god as the oh well limbo in limbo.  are the many heavens of discarded appliances equaled in number by dolphins unimaginably safe?  does the thought, to be darkened, arrive?

(Your words stand on my soul
Like a paperweight

There's no need to shout when
You can bore us in-
to a zombie-like state)

Is it sadder I have to
Listen
To you speak

Or

That you have to teach
This *******
To me?

Fain she sings to the bleeding sun;
acid rain is a strange phenomenon.
Do ghosts walk the plank
and drown into the sea?
Fallen, fallen! Drowning, drowning...
Barefoot against the biting earth,
my soul it tastes the warmth of birth,
when the blood is hot in the veins--it runs.
Men do shrink at the sound of a gun.
Do they know of such and such a place
where horror fills the eyes of babes?
Paperweight cannot compensate,
cannot hold the shaken down.
Soon there will be, inevitably,
hysteria! all around.
Faces long and wet like paintings,
vivid grief that breeds a-fainting.
Madman eyes so wide and shot
with blood.
The price, the knife...
I know not of.

I am the eye on your shelf
I am the scratches of ink
that rip through unbarred arenas-
when sunken bones and unburied prints
amass a clump of
galloping words
tracing measured tracks
of battles forlorn

Hence my history beckons and the
leather straps like tires
machinal; my life
reduced to rubble burn-marks
in a book that
made you look
without a care
for where-
to put it.

another whisper in the wind which once
carried its conquered careful balance
Now sits still as a spineless paperweight
propped up by the heap of dust
in your periphery

Each dull wheeze
— half-glass-filling lungs, tarred —
records my moments
like reel-to-reel tape
And the heart is a quivering branch
If not a paperweight
Pinning will and testament to the
desk

That plastic wine “glass”
turned out
to be
glass after all
My woman throws me punches
with the gentle touch
— all the virility —
of a little, lonely, old man
feeding bread
to ducks
Then goes to work on the meat of her hand
with the glass
Damages the nerves in her thumb
   tussle ensues
My arms are covered in blood
That two-penny copper smell

sister’s fella has anger issues
and wants a straightener
Tells me I need a job —
Is this not work?
If I had Molly’s blessing
I’d go to work on this *******
But she’s crying
And begs me not to
Begs him to calm down
I wanted to widow her
Her
And my bleeding wife

love,
a funny thing
so uncertain
yet so promising

your gift
is but a paperweight
atop a dresser

meant as a promise:
you wouldn't make
the same mistake
again

another chance,
a retake.

yet it sits,
meaningless

pearls won't fix
how my heart aches

your love
was never really there

was it.

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I didn't care to lose it,
it was a paperweight to me.
And i was lifted into different corners of possibilities as i was freed,
I was no longer caged in the idea
that I was young or naive,
that no one could know me.

And still no one knows me,
for I'm not just my body.
My soul;
it's own entity.

And though I curve towards you,
I know your warmth,
and I shiver
under your chest,
You are no different
than the rest.

Being alone is strangely freeing.
Now that you're gone, I have no one to answer to.
No one texting me constantly to see what I'm doing
And where I am and who I'm with.

Being alone is a cage with no bars.
I have all the time in the world and no one to share it with.
I'll watch a beautiful sunset, and try to pass my cigarette
To the outline of a woman that isn't there anymore.
Though your shadow still casts next to mine on my roof.

Being alone is enlightening.
With no idle chit chat to fill the air
My thoughts can now smoke out a room.
Every situation is either dreadfully awful or benevolently warm.
There is certainly a struggle for balance.

Being alone is stupefying.
I become so engrossed in myself I forget the world around me exists.
My cell phone sits in my pocket, a fossil of wires and plastic.
I find it now just to be an over sized paperweight.
Most time now spent in isolated contemplation.
There's always sunshine behind my tag-a-long rain cloud.

There is strength to be gained from solitude.
I now fully bare the weight of my unobstructed conscience.
My once feeble legs carry on like the hooves of the ox.
Once cold, I am now warm and inviting.
I greet each day with open arms and humble spirit.

Life is okay.
Even if I have to experience it alone,
Sometimes, it's not a bad thing.
I feel the warmth.

you don't fool all!

you might hide behind
a glass of mesquite
but most people (beings)
read beneath your depth

that may be as shallow as a puddle

but don't we all muddle
through the rain?
and see our feet get wet?

However!?

There are roads that most won't
purposely walk at night
because on such desolate paths
things are wont to cause fright

However

Our Gonzo sits in the middle
of the path
a drink in one hand
and in the other?
Part of an old soul escaped
just looking for the other half
telling jokes about himself
that make others laugh
and he sips their happiness
from a half empty glass

Gonzo is just a paperweight
that sits heavily on a boney frame
John Patrick Robbins is an amazing writer, flesh and blood
A lover, a fighter
that leaves little rays of sunshine
on the path to Insane

empty is not the right word.
what is the word for
not quite empty but not quite full?
there is a glass on the table-
it is not half-empty,
but it is not half-full.
it is just a glass of water.
i am just a glass of water:
not empty, not full;
not happy, not sad-
not anything.
not anything at all.

the clear blue nothingness
reminds me of the fact.
it’s dotted with cotton candy clouds.
i wonder if they are as sweet.
my tongue salivates at the thought.
it is like a land of dreams
without sorrow or pain
yet i am here,
floating lightly
though i feel like a paperweight,
weighed down by the lump in my throat.

it’s hard to remember
what home looks like.
i can’t see in terms of
“where i belong,”
i only see in terms of
“the trees are like broccoli sprouts-” and
“the cars look like hotwheels-” and
“every single one has a person in it, and
they all have their own journeys, and
i am here.”
i don’t think they know how beautiful it is.
i didn’t.

home to me now is a backpack
a couple books
and a trinket from an old friend.
they are the only ones like me:
strangers in a strange land.
i’d like to find my way back someday-
if only i knew the way.

Green glass
but it's French
which makes it
verre vert.
The French should like that.
They appreciate
their jeux de mots.

Not a statue
of a man
but it could be.
Not a piece of art at all
except
I have made it so
by saying it is one.

Its qualities
are visual
and tactile at once
the material heavy
(over a kilo)
not so much transparent
as translucent
the colour
from under the sea
the surface curved
smooth
glossy
the shape functional
admirably suited for its purpose
its name
embossed on the back
(or the front?)
giving a clue.

L' ÉLECTRO VERRE
redundant insulator
from an overhead power cable
found object
(objet trouvé)
from the garden
of friends
in the Alpes-Maritimes.

This souvenir
potential paperweight
ornament
sculpture
is more than all of these.

Souvenir after all
is French for memory.