notes to self
she sits in the empty row, alone
the ikaki bag woman has short obedient hair, a fixed gaze
firm
and behind the all black polyester shoes,
her inward looking knees, i know
she’s still a girl.
at an arabic funeral
in place of tears,
the dry wind and desert sky.
green the insciptions on a slab,
the dirt was, like the Americans’ uniforms, colour of a sparse beach.
it’s my words choked at my gullet, i can’t swallow
and the wisps from my lanyx that you
make for my words.
i’m suffocating, dear
it’s the high wails from my horse throat that i gallop with my hoofs
2023, nocturnal hours/ the room is dark, less the light on these emotionless faces — I imagine how i must seem. The room mates are on beds adjacent to mine: I wonder if they see the light that i see; their faces. We lay docile on our beds: still, dying. Words come out unrelative, merely customary. Our phones on night desks, fixed to their umbilical…
On the fifteenth time I painted red it was dull blue, it was deep magneta. The bonsai trees had its roots like new legs — now standing on its own. Yet the sky made it look so distant and the ocean in its own calmness; as if it had been there for a long time. I remember now that dog who’ve found its feet again and for the first time, found no joy in…