“when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.” Grace Paley

fall into me
on blackout days
for something beautiful
is here is everywhere
is nowhere
you knew it
Borges used it
beauty is a physical sensation
the axis mundi piercing
the palms of my hands

memory like a gipsy woman
who reads palms
beauty, yes, it draws the soul
ascetic
I figured it out in the smiling of your sleep
like babies smile to angels, they say
this game that keeps us alive is hers
golden beetles die for it
of for the love of dust

pastimes of gods its archives
everyday the light tastes differently
the body moves where the mind is
or the other way round
I'll read Cartarescu to you half naked
one page a day

beauty is the quest,
this spiral of wonder
filling up the rest &
my nails

she asked for
a birthday calendar
simplistic in design
quite endearing
nonetheless
to collate
each and every
important date
mark them down
in her neatest
clearest handwriting
she thought that
if she hung it
in pride of place
on the wall
by the kitchen door
her eye would
be drawn to it
each time
she left the room
she would not
forget to send
the appropriate message
of congratulations
and many happy returns
when needed
     or expected;
although
the calendar may
coincidentally
be showing
the correct month
it has remained
on that page
untouched
     ignored or
     unheeded
for the past
eleven months

As long as the paint is wet
my finger writes
my diary
in colourful blends

Unspoken questions
dipped hue after hue
and curl in curl on the tip
of my finger, layer on layer

a gobstopper of memories
which I slowly lick off, every time
I want to taste their flavours
and reread my life

The tin drum throws me

back into my childhood days --


everything's in it.