the morning of the world by Pablo Picasso

“i have a face cut from ice

a heart pierced in a thousand places

so to remember

always the same voice

the same gestures

and my laughter


as a wall

between you and me

the ones who are most alive

seem the most still

behind the milky way

a shadow dances

our gaze climbs toward the stars”


this coffee is caramel, or piss-colored

and the question stayed choked as i slumped to the floor

and the curled carpet rose around. Ave, ave, ave…

black-and-orange caught our hips and held, soft/tight facial lines

I need to close. I am weighted.

But it is late/early morning and the sun is a one-sided hug

and we know that everyone is probably full of shit, (anarchy) but

that doesn’t stop burnt letters from whirling forth and fro….

suspended. taut line.