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
vantage
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
inevitably,
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
spidery-start
The Haunted Typewriter 