i keep thinking there is something i am supposed to be doing which leads me increasingly to believe that this is it; it isn’t nihilism but it is nothing

yesterday was
a wooden boat.
a steel anchor.
an unsettled ocean,
longing for the moon.
a twenty eight inch Winter
king salmon puts pork
in the boat’s small
stove, puts diesel fuel in its
engine. lunatic sea
throws itself liquid against
us, wooden marionettes
in a floating capsule.
the small stove flares bright
famous in a rolling flood of fuel.
ocean reaches again for moon and
boat slides into trough,
stove gasps for ebbing fuel.

i wear tattoos on my faded skin
as a way to go unnoticed.
i turn a pink tongue in the ink
of my mouth as a method for safety.
a pale blonde cat mewls at a glass door,
hunger forcing it to overcome mistrust.
rising stiffly from a wooden table, i walk
to and then open glass door. cat does not
come in and i follow suggestions left
from dusk blue inked mouth to find my way
back to a wooden island.

a friend who has
exchanged body for another,
displays a painted picture
meant to represent escape.
my morning was a forgetting
time in an effort to remember
relief. the physical body is
of course unconcerned
with what we forget to remember.
time will not ask any
permissions. my spirit is tethered
to my body; a balloon
on a pink string full of helium,
a moon that rises one hour and
one half later each day. all
of these things; balloon, moon,
spirit, pull at us.
time is a keeper of itself, it
excepts none.

yesterday was
a wooden boat on
a moonswept sea.
today is
a wooden table.
a timeless glass door.
a furtive cat. hunger
floods and then leaves.

a body goes bright with fading
tattoos, as a tongue riddles
in its desire for relief.
a spirit on a tether pulls
at us, both and each.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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