uncomputing

a swirling bend in the atmosphere

this opening
allows me to feel stitchless and gaping,
the outbreaths of a hundred people filling
it
and the strange sound
of their swimming irises
doing laps over me
every day

i have gotten to wear a clock face
instead of my own.
my hands are tied to one another
telling the timelessness of it all,
all a little wander

every day
the outbreaths of a hundred people
bubble into the space of me

they refract
they squeeze
and they burst,
they leave me standing in their oxygen,
a swirling bend in the atmosphere

poem, touching

the skin off your emotions
slides
like slips of ink into blots

there are pages of condensation
troubled by the pressed prints
of your fingers
in the book of us

we wrote a poem,
touching
at the corners
we wrote letters
to the dust to gather
we wrote that a thought be
shut into the binding
so that when it opens,
the covers would hold

watching for my earth

what is there in me
in the hallucination pushing at the ground
in the teeth barring in words
that resonates,
that stirs
at the string in the someones around me

ties them in naughts,
fiddles with a few cells here and there
triggers reactions

they are all watching for my earth
to spin,
to catch at orbiting debris,
to circle about what they really want to be closer to

a hole in the fabric of their sorts

from a cold when, a passing

isn't it that
senses
live on dots
three,
next to one another with nothing in between,
but the what holds them together
(a gushing thought someone had)
is pressed between our lives

could call them
bullet holes
without the wall to grip the circle shadows,
yet they do leave
cold tappings in the air

could call it
a wrong number
with no other end for the receiver

just a hang-up,
the coiling tone wrapped around
the hold

sit waiting
with a cigarette butt in the background
and the handkerchief of smoke lifting away,
oh magic

dial
pointing

-
unfortunately can only see you
after you are drawn,
but i'm trying before 

feeling fingers on a keyboard

there are yet

endlessnesses,

becomings

"half of the time we're gone
but we don't know where
and we don't know where"

Tangled Gravities

each person has their own seed of gravity
they are growing up
and in my place as fellow gardener
I notice my hands,
always soiled by the soils of everyone;
and you, it might be, that you get soil from me
stuck to you.

soon you find your seed
sprouts strange leaves you never knew 
it should. 

these tangled gravities worry me,
the gardener of sounds in me
vibrates with a kind of
unsure resound.

those echoes shiver in roots
and shoots
and it becomes impossible to tell
where you and I end
because we began
two shiverings
and then we crossed
and the hug from that conversation
became a hollow
where neither of us can tell apart
our intersticed memberings.

these beautiful gravities
I touch the weavings of,
make me some body.

how human.