High Desert
On being a part of the problem, and just sort of having to sit within that,
or whatever.
I wonder if anything remains truly unfettered?
—can anything ascend beyond this glut of being, this mire of knowing—
I hate my phone.
Is this implied narcissism?
Is airbnb implied narcissism? Is the act therein little more than capitulation?
Is there anything truly able to be held?
Maybe it’s a me thing.
grease upon the wheel,
a panting dog looking back,
terminal lucidity.
Maybe this is just a really cool house to be in, in a virus of really cool houses to be in, in the surrounding high desert.
Nothing more than a neatly-arranged space in which to just sort of sit down a while.
Maybe it’s all fine, really
Still,
The whole thing feels sort of vacuous upon retrospect
Maybe it’s the maligning of spaces. The commodifying of shelter: a counterweight, steadily growing.
A leisure pursuit, a study in form: an enclave tithing
concurrently, as a displacing urn: a gaping maw clamping down upon the innocent.
I think you just have to bore into your resolve from time to time—to give thanks and to show attention.
Seems to help me, anyway
Maybe this is all just low blood sugar.
I'm making Phat Kaphrao for dinner tonight, and we've settled upon using ground chicken, but we don’t have a wok. In its stead, a now-detrital caraway pan that is the absolute worst.
You know,
Maybe it’s enough to simply acknowledge the state of a thing.
Maybe it’s enough to stand before a mighty oak, in free fall—
to be tousled by the displaced air rushing in, to receive the brief gleam through the canopy as it passes, to bow low and perceive the young shoots, erect.
and really,
It is not as though such a thing could be withstood anyway.
I'm teeming with ghosts
And I'm still whining for wives
Knitting my brow
But now I've surrendered
In fact, I have joined in
Hear us howling!
Aug 12 - 14
Nikon “Pikaichi” L35AD2
Portra 400
TCR Photo Imaging Center, Tempe