lamdalamdalamda

here's to being beset by contentment! this has been a lovely summer, and i've found myself going out, being somewhat fearless. my syntesizer misses me though, and i always say: "you have to wait!" i've been think about poetry based on tiny gestures, ones smaller than a penstroke.

here's a poem that i realized:

until the season
buries us, caves in on
us engraves
us, split with
our mirrorselves
now in unison this
ringing, this
"for in september we
when air takes
knives we
cover ourselves in
curtains we
clasp our hands
and wait for the spectre"


and a far superior one by a zen monk:

You must play
The tune of non-being yourself-
nine summits collapse
Eight oceans go dry

x 1000!