bruna mori




Create your first bowl, with thirst.




Natty love lace stiletto,

posturing wigwam mine,

sol seeking more sunshine:


you’ll be a swan someday.




Thwart any eye-gouging of the collector,

moral resolve will keep the dregs in check.




Nests made of eggshells,

cover you.




Dream interior,



Swann’s in recovery


here in the river, paved.



like the one-eyed turtle you search for enlightenment with burning belly and shell as cold as ice caps rise from a seemingly fathomless sea after 1,000 years for refuge in a sandalwood log but one eye reverses perception east becomes west and north south you say you are not one-eyed but woke early to the trunk of a palm perfectly visible



to remove thought one must record thought replace it to avoid conundrum of showering or drinking coffee first or manifestations of compulsions taking three showers asking are you compulsive or any other thought that has left this poem


you say you are hungry thirsty numb your arm in night feels disconnected from shoulder   shiatsu-ist   says something was released leaving no connective tissue some accumulated mold of air that resembled you was removed  


an enema for your blocked third-eye chakra sleep with rose quartz in pillow soak in salt water rinse repeat immature intuit-type reassurances sought by roadside psychics gambling matters of souls as matters of heart always decisions always difficult always fortunate


things are settling you found a yang rising issue from your acupuncturist rising fire with no root no ground heavenly tree bark prescribed for your herb package with smiles a bark from a heavenly tree pulls fire back to the ground finding footing again roads and scent


to live ten years beyond becoming aware of your self apart from any reality created as being something not quite you try for milestones plot simultaneous life in linear columns see if you can get past two







sunlight of each





Trying to resurrect a dead flower,

the child shrieks, “We must make it alive again!”



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