Pieces 3.21.24

And every night at dusk the crows fly south. It’s nice, the days we make pancakes and hug over the stove.

What comes to past shakes its way toward us moving future to past. Once there was no one to remember this, now we all chant our time frames.

I returned early / for the silence, / for the lovely pang that is / a flower, / returned to the silent dance ground (Duncan, The Dance)

A recipe handed down in each makers hand. Is there a time in which narrative is necessary rather than glancing off of it like a skipped stone.

I’d like to go to that room over the beach with you where the stairs are broken down to black sand and there are holes in the mosquito net. No sleep like that done to waves. Why do we need everything faster…I ask just after being horrified at this page not loading instantly.

Is it lazy to have no concept, or story and stick to it. This is how my mind makes sense of it. More like a coil pot than one thrown in a factory of wheels.

If the poems come from the outside then is each ready made.

I like question marks a few fonts smaller than its adornments.

I have had each of these words on the tip of my tongue. Lucky to only fall for the frozen pole once and never was a boy for guns.

Succinctly tell me who you are as small talk being the only glue to this civilization. Do you want more?

How was the first diamond found, smashing rocks, water’s flux. Sand and rock are getting expensive.

Maybe I should hold more back although the analytics show no one reads every one, so still new to most. Buried in plane sight. Like a mixtape on datpiff downloaded and burnt to cd.

What are we born to be, what do we learn to be. Are either of these things real in any sense of being truth enough to discuss from? There, it was needed.

How many great crawl spaces have you seen. Do not underestimate or write off the dull colors of winter.