futile art of speaking

one’s breath makes rough thought monotony. coy rattle of a routine question.

what is it we hoped to find?

 

in the spirit of altered books and reinvention, practicing the sometimes futile art of looking for myself in others, while still-life like paused on the more often futile art of speaking.

 

sankófa, the “bird who flies while looking at history.”

(he says.)

“…i’m living a life I have no wish to live.”

 

then rain ate some lines on a paper
i never recalled

i lost a friend’s second name
in the untraceable directories of childhood

 

i’ll watch the seasons pass,
and i’ll remember how strong I once was.

                     there is a map and how often we leave it behind.

From worthy reads (in this order)
1 2 3 4 5