I thought I had something to write,
but instead I'm buzzing strangely
as if I'm a conduit for the lost currents in the air,
   The static electricity.
  
I yearn to untangle.

My insides are a coil of jumper cables
and perhaps I'll take up yoga.

And then I will write a story that weighs more than the factory which made the pen,
And it will be such that the whole world will read it
and weep.
And the whole world will be that one guy who rows the gondola boat in city park
because I will have left it
by the dock.
And all the people will return again and again
To purchase another ride,
To sit in his boat and glide on the water
and hear him tell the story,


And their tears will fill the lake.

some words are like mirrors
i could see a reflection
of me.

In the narrowest of lanes
I found the sweet shop.

Behind dusty crumbling glasses
dozed the old keeper
smelling of sugar, milk and sweat
over fossils of Paleolithic sweets
on a time machine from the century
he never was
to a millennium he doesn't bother about
clinging onto clay by pottery
not succumbing to synthetic
counting not on android
but accounting on parchment
with the art of finger's arithmetic
most intricately scribbled with pencil
announcing progress is a trouble
not designed for the simple
and contentment has no more nitty-gritty
than price and quantity.

Over his head
spiders worked and reworked
from the ceiling to the glass
as have been doing
since Carboniferous.

When the moon hovers hallucinated
on the post canal
breaking in bubbles of fish breath
the white widow of the night
revives her long dead tongue
to lick the scales of your skin
pulling you into her bed of nails
making love with you the whole night
leaving you bruised and insatiate
when they find your shadow
scouring the edge of the canal
with her name on its lip.