Third of five
A gemini
When she flies we soar
Her noise can floor
Echoed in our ears
Remembering laughter brought
A powerful injection of positive vibes that elevates temporary state

The scales etched from one to ten
A bell of Tibet
She cares to share so extra
Between be relatively unseen
Conceded when she dips
her time is needed
Worthy as a sister of mercy

Bleed my mind out
Onto paper again
It’s in a cage
I’m full of rage
Things can’t be the same.
**** a phase, this is a chapter
Turn the page, streets in flames
Things can’t be the same.
I feel the pain when I see their eyes
And I can **** near taste it
They wanna rewrite history
But the noise too loud
So they can’t erase it
Things can’t be the same
Light it
Gone

In between the screens
the typing keys,
the (gradient) lines,
the buzzing phones,
there is
        peace
        space
        silence.

I find “the morning”
to be subjective- despite
what the birds may say.

If I
when I'm shouting
when I'm shouting in the tin-roof rain
against the stadium crowd
If I
when in the white shadow of her pain
bone marrow and head to toe
If I
fail to make myself heard
then I only have myself to blame

- I'm practiced enough
in finding a way through
through careful positioning
through forceful attention grabbing
with her head in both hands
taking her head to mine
and catching her eyes
brow to brow and toe to toe
until she knows I'm there
and that she can come back to us here
where the quiet is.

There is infinity in our words
In our minds
And in our numbers
There is infinity in this sentence
In more ways than one
How do I know?
I know because I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that I know etc
There’s comparatively little paper & ink
So I’ll keep this short:
It creates the problems that it solves, in infinite ways
It giveth & it taketh away
Yet somehow we are still left with it
Or in it , I should say
For who are we without it?
It sanctions the question
Sponsors the answers
It seems to enjoy speculation
It doesn’t stop
Yet it never starts
It is the original contradiction
Which bears our calendars
Winds out clocks
Confounds us with death
It is too big to be invisible
And too small to be palpable
And it holds whole worlds in between
All sorts of worlds, all of them,
Yet it is nothing more than nothing
Turned inside out,
An impostor,
An enchanter desperate for subjects,
A master of mirrors with light & shadow that seizes us in catoptric curls,
An impostor wanted
For questioning:
We have scoured snowy horizons amid snow storms,
Amid sand storm we have ploughed sandy horizons,
We found footsteps in sand,
Shadows on snow
Which we failed to recognize as our own,
We followed imprints left by windy stars
We thought we were perennial nomads just like them,
We called out behind closed eyes into glow-wormed horizons
And with abdication, fear & envy we took the echoes for something else:
An impostor
Yet between the calls
Within resonance
There was silence
Impossible silence
Suspended silence
Differentiating silence
Connecting silence
Silence that does not change yet accommodates out whims
Silence that cannot be spoken yet remains a word
Silence that promotes the hunger of hope,
That drives anticipation,
Silence that is so vast it is impersonal
Yet so finely tuned it apprehends the one
Silence that is something more than everything turned inside out:
A nothing that confound
A grounding nothing
An unnerving nothing
A nothing that is vital,
And the more we hear this nothing the less nothing we hear:
- Patterns of eternity
- Internal symbolism
- Longing
Yet if we were to linger forever
How things would lose their power to move us.

A silent free fall,
Quiet through the cloud and wind,
Clang! - don’t build tin roofs.