a small thing (1)

this morning, there was an act

well, it was not an 'act' but had some qualities of a performance gone right
though it was an act gone wrong 

what I mean to say is, her intention was to place the glass container with leftovers nobody wants to be reminded of, 

nobody wants to think, oh look at the ridgegourd palya (coated in oil and what can only be self-shame) we are wasting 

while the world goes to ruin 

to place it on the counter. She was not aiming for elegance or anything, but there was a flourish that snuck into her system just as she moved to place it,

and the glass container misread the impulse 

and flew 

magnificently, I'll add

just simply flew out her hand, a glorious leap, a moment of complete freedom,

I'm tempted to mention it catching a slice of sunshine (but, it did all happen quite quickly and slowly at the same time, so this I will omit), 

and then, in an unbelievable fashion

you might ask what is unbelievable man, what goes up must come down, but you were not there so don't talk and learn to trust, there was a temporary sense of confusion in all of us watching - what, how - how did it crash

the confusion was not, how did it leap
it was fixed on the crash

we were with it as it leapt, there was joy in that movement (moment) 

and disbelief as it crashed

well, ridgegourd palya dealt with (that was the good part) 
now the wreckage

so, a few moments of silence in us all, 
brain clearing the table of everything prior, to make space to make sense of this spectacle 
one deft sweep

a little recce

palya contained to largely one splat spot

large pieces staying more or less close to point of impact

the mid sized pieces 
they seized the moment, I'll tell you 
they really capitalised on the escape potential of the whole fiasco
they went far and wide

the smaller pieces, in confused orientation, 
indicating a lack of control or investment in their own selves and outcome

the tiniest pieces, settling into the safety of the mosaic floor
their fate undeterminable by me, or you 

for a flash, I connected with this container

this ex-container

the container that was, and the leap and smash that allowed it to somehow be seen as something other than a container

anyway

we cleaned it all up, best we could 
and got on with our day 

blink

I don’t want to sleep

it brings the next day

you know that’s only going to bring the day after that

I blink, a week goes by, a year

a tap left running

tigerheart

In a room
of her own 

inside me
she paces 

the one 

who is not
Mother.

That restless movement
while uncomfortable 
is preferred
to when 

she goes still.

Stone still
Hard as
when provoked
regardless, 

by child or man.

Remember,

she is not mother.
She is not anybody’s 

anybody;

and when she goes still

I feel capable of anything,
an unfeeling terrifying free falling
Anything.

So 

I draw her back

into her room 
hand her a cup
of something

and can only return to my life
when assured 

she will not
follow me out.

I just can’t 

be

bothered 

to look for the thing

you’ve hidden 

show me, though

he wants to sit comfortable in any chair he chooses

if he decides the bed is a chair, he should be allowed to sit on it, no questions asked

if he decides your head is a chair, he should be allowed to sit on it, no questions asked

you open your mouth

HEY

no

would you look at

sidewalk flowers

and say,

they will never amount to anything 

Relentless

When I think of the countless photographs 
taken over years and years 

what was the purpose

capturing what exactly

and why

as this thought nestles in

it punctures my lungs

painful

how can one hold time

worse than sand