Circumstantial words, or
coal in reverse – carbonizing back to plantlife –
keep it in the ground, it will form a circle.
A circumstance of stances not taken yet;
dances still flirting in dis-repose/
I said – to me, you are the alwaysman,
You said I cannot remember the shape of your hand, or
why you think mine should fit in yours

Heavy metals, though, they need supernovae to form/
We can manage it –
large hadron collider and such,
but the time
it will take
to match gravity
in comparison
to your memory/
My circumstance;
atomic structure;
quizzical destiny looking itself up in the dictionary;
situational comedy;
and circumstance

like two timelines clinking champagne glasses –
a salute to our cellular happenstance
and the fate-magma bubbling inside
(i told you i don’t believe in fate – you said,
but i do)


the wind is waiting to warp you

here was a word I once knew how to own, and here was a body I once knew how to inhabit.

here was a season I once flooded – here is a season I’ve never met. here is a month drenched in climate confidence (change and circumstance, pomp and confusion). here is my child, here is my breath. here is my constantly churning yearning for the knowledge that I am brave enough to articulate what tiny words I know (together, they are a spell/apart, they are a whimsy; a whimper; a wish). here is Meinong’s jungle, here is a hacksaw. here is Aquinas’s’ theory of natural law, here is nature, tapping at my window, asking to come in. here is the new season, tapping on my tongue – asking to come in. asking me to come out, come out – see the splendid seeds brandishing their stalks and stems. come out, come out – pull your skin towards the sun once more. come out, come out, the clocks will tumble too – we’ll all lift our faces towards the sun/tilting/tilting/we’ll all till the land, kill the clock, shake the ice out of our senses. here is the season – come out, come out/the wind is waiting to warp you.

oh come, oh come the world is made of glass and fire-rain. the tumbled pitcher of the sky keeps pouring, the rhythmless fancy of the tide keeps turning, the water turns black-ice and wildfire if given enough time and temperature. the temperature of the world is tilt-graced and tuning in.

the temperature of the world is sticky-goo and mild-mannered; fumble-high and tidal-sigh. the weight of the world of 3.14 tons of triple-twisted tones. the weight of the world, the weight of the world sits with me, has tea, has little crumpet pies. has little trumpet lies, trump-like ties, trumped-up trickle-down economics, Freakonomics, trickle-up the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again. down came the rain and washed the fighter out – wash the fight out of your ears – wash the light out of your eyes – the only thing it does it clog the listening. wash it out, wash it out, trickle it down (the money, the equality, the rhythm of the night still pounding – flesh tipped and turnip-ed, turned up nose and those that just turned up), pay it forward, pay it back. pay it back, you banking fool, pay it back, you tight rope Carnegie. Pay it back, the world still weighs it down. Pay it back, the world still weighs with waiting. The world still waits to be weighed. To be wooed. To be cooled. Down. Double down, on it, will you? You’ll get your investment back in Time.