Recitations

I’m a one-cent worker—

Who the fuck are you?

Driving surreptitiously

up unpainted streets

dressed in crumbled brick

and shaded asphalt.

A candle,

a wisp of incense,

the still as ocean sucking into itself.

Gwan Shr Yin, with eyes

on each hand.

Mundane recitations:

Computer,

One who communicates indirectly through colon closed parenthesis click send,

Figs accosted by ants,

IM, cell phone, finches chirping, high-speed pic upload,

Feline in afternoon August light,

Starting fresh after flooding,

scrubbing silted corners,

laying carpet,

preparing dinner,

listening to fig leaves rustle evening breezes,

the telegraph tapping of ceiling fans:

“Sea of Suffering. Stop. Observer of the sounds of the world. Stop. The sounds of the world.