to the right, a moon in a morning sky

our turning sets it

on the horizon of an apartment building

in the middle, cloudless and a blueness dimmed by a leftness

of a settling storm front before a sun

our turning raises it

morning is set upon what lies behind

is what is unknown waste? if a book of words, known only to a few, waits, is it being forgotten, buried? does time make what little is known of something be less known until it recedes into the unknown altogether? if a book of words is buried by time is it waste? if a book of words is known by many is it merely appropriated? if something has been appropriated, has it been taken up, gathered, saved? if a book of words has been saved, was it in danger of being lost before? is a book of poetry appropriated waste?

pendulum pulses not mechanical now electrical tiny bottled hidden currents

this now is time

time fires off as nothing other than a dying star now

and so the pendulum is imperfect in its swinging

and the eye feels this imbalance in a shadow on the wall

or time's shadows are made timely by clouds moving in moving out

or the sun cuts through clouds calling shadows to my eye

turning into time attention

12:51

he says it is mirror time

so, time is aware of itself as having self?

well, time reflects itself

no, time is folding in on itself

while reading about the origins of pac man this morning, my poetic mind dropped its jaw. iwatani created a game knowing that we tend to chase ghosts of our former selves around, mirroring a kind of labyrinth of selfdom. however, if we just stood still, these ghosts, although put in motion by our momentum, would continue on like an object in space with no gravity to yield them, save a corner or a wall that they might happen to encounter which will only serve to bounce them into another direction, and any direction at that. how strange to think that these former selves, these ghosts, are seemingly autonomous, that they need no direction and take no real direction from us. the connection we have with them is an illusion, reflected or made manifest in the corners and walls of the maze of selfdom we have constructed. iwatani, thank you for reminding me that it is i who has been in hot pursuit of some ghostly mazed-in self, if, for nothing else, the sheer cyber encounter of it all.

a true treeear

revels in compresseding of stillness

amidst the cuttings, how

and, who could truly fell this ear?