I used to write when a pen and ink were the tools we used
but
then I got cofused by predictive text
(which never worked then)
did it?

so now if there is a now or is it then? when I have this existential crisis
I have no pen to poke my eyes out or scribble words out or rip a scripture on papyrus,

there's just us
declining yet advancing
in our years
reclining in the armchairs
climbing up the
back stairs

I used to have shares in this
now
I'm a part of it


don't let them sell you **** and
call it jello,
that's my advice for
what it's worth

unwinded
untwisted
undulated
like a
neon boa constrictor
the river
crawled
back
into
the
thick sleepy Delta
from
the
mouth of
the
yellow
bamboo river

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

love is
no Where

love is
noW here