I came back to the willow tree after the amputation of the branch that was split in a square.
I thought it would be thankful that I filed for it to be cut off by the authorities who could.
I thought the tree would embrace me again.

Cause we both had to let go of things.
I thought it understood.
But I felt resentment when I came to see the tree.
It didn’t embrace me.
In fact, it didn’t even want to acknowledge me there.

Did I do the wrong thing?
I don’t think so because I read about rotting when dead branches keep hanging.
I feel that rotting every day inside of me.
I hold onto thoughts and coping too much.
And I have to try to bend or break them somehow.  

Some are most difficult to break completely.
So maybe it fell forced for the tree as well.
But I think the letting go was necessary and the tree should understand that too.

Trees like that are wise enough, you’d think.
But today I realized something different.
It was probably the way I came along this time.

I didn’t come humble.
I came with a feeling that I did something good.
And maybe that was not the best way because I should also have recognized the pain of the tree.
And I did in a way, but maybe I moved too fast towards the letting go.
Maybe I should have come with care.

With tenderness, empathy and understanding.
I shouldn’t have smiled like everything was fine. Cause I should probably know too well that it’s not just fine just because it has to happen.
It’s not easy to let go.
It takes time and great pain.

And I should have been more thoughtful about that.
So next time I see the tree, I would see the pain and hopefully then it will embrace me like it used to.
Because we both understand that life comes with letting go but that does not mean that it’s easy.
And it feels forced sometimes.
Unnatural.
This world feels unnatural to me too.
Whatever natural may be.
It feels forced.
Forced upon me.

But maybe it’s what I need.
I will need it to move on.
But when?
And why?
I’m not sure.
That makes it extra hard to trust in the process. But that’s all I can do.

I got no other choice in a matter.
I’m not happy about my impatience.
I wish I could just close my eyes and take a long time.
Drink my beer in meditation with small sips.

I try.
It’s the best I can do in this moment.
Just trying to take it really slow.
Some things can wait.
And somethings keep trying to alert me.

And sometimes when I find peace in waiting, then there’s also distracting noise.
Always something.
To do, to deal with.
Or not to deal with if I could only let go.

"It's quite a pretty hell,
quite a pretty hell,"

said the wilting woman
to her plastic window self,

a half-tint fetch, etched
in the eye of the weevil

threading the black dough
of the crosstown bus route.

The nightclubbers behind her
exchange glances and hold hands

as she begins to hum to herself,
but the unvarnished melody

lodges in an angle of odd brain
& soon I'm humming it too

as I step into 18th Street's maw,
already bristling neon sweet

with milkmaid dress hems
threshing ruptured doorsteps -

turning up my street I catch
a last sight of the shushed bus husk

crawling away northwards
with only a scratching hum inside

for its heartbeat, and a face lost
in the catacomb of its reflection.

that’s how you like your poetry,
That’s how you would like everything,
No stress, no test, easy on the breast,
but short and sweet has no protein,
won’t build your bones, quite contrary,
the poem that doesn’t make you think,
it’s just a cavity, a precurse to self~decay
a drip dripping in just another day of you evaporating

Conservation of energy
Conservation of thought
Conservation of my ******* self
When the real battles get fought
Contemplation of the future
Contemplation of the void
Contemplation of the furnace
Where atoms get destroyed.

In miracles,
You don't know what will
happen in the next second,
Just swim in the sea of belief and faith,
And you will float on waves of miracles,
In life's illusion.
3/8/2025

I cuddled up with
a metaphor that was
caught in the corner of
my room.
I dressed it in the
silk of kings, and fed
it from the fractured
trees of innocence.
Low-hanging fruit of
despair gets us
every time.

~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity

Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity

It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere

Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite

Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~

fish, locally caught
a neighbours gift

still wriggling
just as smeagol likes them