The Geometrical Concerns of An Inconstant Heart

I wander around this compartment – this house that wishes it were home

And the lines are weary and trace displacement, the cartographer is not master of his art

Either, or, the building is bereavement, a place they put him, and depart,

He takes his compass, it weighs heavy, the moral, protracted, angles too… uh.. cute,

or unhinging on a will to come apart…

But if a poem can prove a map, a man will scribble an outline of a coast, and call it ‘the state of my heart’

A question, for my person, to engage a metaphysics of loneliness and physical – … sigh.. anyway, I’ll start..

Does a circle want a center?

Or does a circle a center want?

Does a centered circle want to be bound? To be pressed upon by outer forces?

Which impart?

A sense, I seek of what makes degrees of feeling, that somewhere is where one ought-

To be, or not to be, but becoming

while being what one wants to

smart edged people seem so figured

and pointmakers often elude me, for just cause

they seem to know the blueprint so easy

no need to question junctions, medians, connect-

shunning larger frames that stun

me at times into inaction, from very framebreaking


parts to whole is – not addition

but also –

more than addition, whole than parts

if I implicate myself

in my intricate prayer for meaning

by yearning for what I


gloss over, and leave out

gossamer, I still feel, gladly

I broke through the web of maya a bit

as the tea comes to a boil,

and I go to make warmth where i can

and drink to a soothing


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