I am back here again
hundreds of years in the vaults of my mind
tailored like my coffin;
ten years of writing, toiled

over all the things not done.
There is dust only left in the flask
of this body   it curls up and weeps
alone to all the stones

which I carry up this hill. If
pushing rocks is my destiny
then let me gouge out the good eye
and be ‘phus in this form

as good as any shape to become.
Things, as they are, are their own becoming;
I am unbecoming again
on this dust cloud I worry upon

nothing takes a miracle pursuing
a title dream in this daymare
spectating this nightmare becoming dizzy daydream
again. I am spectated.

In observations, you see my fits
for who I really am; am not
some greek myth. I am not
pushing daisies or rocks up

my spirit will not allow it. I am
writing in an old notebook, thinking
I am special. It is labor coded
in love lose and nicotine

I am back at it, if by duty
if only by duty I am blinded
by dust all becoming this image now
I am lost to myself still

an echo. When I exhale
I will leave this tomb of it all
leave this tome to the all
to the all seeing nothing that is

II.
recuperating
missing
the myth of me
in the story of you
longing for the hero
journey of my mind
in the heart of yours;

III.
the minotaur of my blood vessels is hungry

IV.
I am hungry too;
for tools more like myself
the wrench in my lungs
pliers around my tooth
a crowbar is my femur
I’ve cut off all my fingers

to make space for unsharpened pencils
what I am is one big pencil
just yesterday I was petrichor
by the name of it      by naming it
there is no blue in the sea
of the green that is me;