Tuesday, 17 September 2013

Tuesday Tao

Kitchen lunatic,
born poor and giving the rest as alms
amongst white clouds.

Known to clerks
by my synecdoche
Ham Sandwich.

I mumble, to and fro.
Ride the bus to and from work
like white rapids.

No good apartment view
but its a cave, no less.

I have knives and memories.
Gory lines and Gorrie Line.

Sawing bread, Mark cut
clean through his nail, into his flesh.
Awesome, I said.  He smiled
knowing I approved his wound:

Its wide, red crescent
a moon in August
on cool, cloud-less night.

I give little on a Tuesday morning
but I pretend to be a poet from the T'ang.
In this way I order the dirt on the floor,

the leaves on the ground,
the Tao in my heart.

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