I am not a person;
I’m a system
of nerves, of curve and loop.
I’m hot quark soup, a bit unruly at first. Take small sips.
But I can also be, quickly, two-plus-two. Lemme elaborate:
I like to snap shots of the everyday
and stare stare stare into them,
budging their molecules ever so slightly.
Look, I’m not what you’d call
a sustainable universe;
I tend to be a sometimes-rotating body
that refuses to tilt and wobble.
When I look up
my stars stay put, forever and ever.
Note: I’ve read tips on how to create a perfect sphere.
The trick? Practice.
I’ll have you know,
the spherification process
is nearly complete.
At this very moment — like right right now –
I’m content.
I can
actually breath,
without the sinking weight.
How does one come to this place,
called “contentment?”
This emotional swatch bearing the boring,
yet stable sweeping array of grays,
is good enough for me.
But I know soon the spin of color will come,
and grays will give way to anything from periwinkle to Van Gogh,
recalling, reminding, dreaming, confusing – then, terrible recognition,
with a mien like the glint of a blaring sun
careening down the bend of a gold ring, demanding white-hot logic,
only to promptly wink out of existence.
