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



3 responses to “futile art of speaking

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