
if i look back, i am lost
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i dont know when it happened, when the words stopped. they never really stopped, just my fingers touching the pen. truth be told, the words have been piling themselves like logs on the front porch of my childhood home, waiting to be burned. to be turned into heat that i’d warm my hands with. wood into ash, words into ink. wood piled high and haphazardly, piles with no discernible feature or arrangement or meaning. piles waiting to be arranged into fuel for something more.
sometimes i wonder if it’s melancholy or if the summer heat will turn into winter cold and i’ll find myself sprawling upon a page till my fingers ache, not from the cold but the sprawling, the gripping of pen putting ink on paper.
sometimes i wonder if the hadron collider shifted us somewhere new where i only remember the piles of wood i collected on weekends to burn into the night but never actually touched. maybe all the words i ever remember writing were never written by myself and who i am in this new land new body new time thinks and collects thoughts like wood waiting to be spent into the atmosphere

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Leeah Joo (b.1971) - Parrhasius No. 66, Glass Spider. Oil on panel.
Barbara and Michael Leisgen - Mimesis, 1972-1973
Chrome Hearts Custom Electric Guitar

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