pi & anne

My teas are one shelf away, above the coffee. It’s the last Thursday of 2023. I got a tiny ceramic tea pot at Christmas and it begs to be filled, demands to be emptied.

New Year Rites.
  Manifesting
  a floating tea leaf.

I have a book about the theory of haiku which is neither short nor gets to the point. It consists of ma. Just ma. In myriads of words. It fades, leaves no grin in the air.

I wish it were empty, I’d understand that.

   zippers
trying to fit in
bottom-up

Again two pigeons on the lowered ceiling lights at the underground station. They keep an eye on the humans holding on to phones. Leaving trains, walking into trains.

An elder man speaks to me unintelligibly. I take out my earphones. “Eggs are so much cheaper in Russia! Why are they so expensive in Germany?” I shrug uncomfortably.

the need to feel alive after noon, or in general.

Mashed potato muffins with broccoli and cheese (a reel recipe)
…
[I filled the trays 24times,
I carefully spooned them out 24times.
The extra work wasn’t worth it.]

It is after Christmas. My son says (with a ham/cheese roll on his plate), “There will always be new things, but will we be able to notice?”

Nine years ago. I had ten caffè doppio each day and fell asleep on my work desk. My intestines said they were black now. I came too late to work and went home early. I didn’t know what to make out of my work tasks, and even less out of myself. Nothing grew out of me. Caffeine can’t wake up an absence.

listening to the very podcast winter dawn

Some books are murderous. There’s nothing and everything left after the last page. I come back to them, hooked to their waiting area. It smells of cicadas.

  another moon
  in my pocket
  a pastel gumball

I wonder where the words are while they are not coming to me. I request a refilling.

how to be a poet

listen
intently

It’s Friday before New Year’s eve.