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.

left boot sole

this year-long rattle in my heel, finally free

oh, little stone! where did you come from?

did you chip off a Czech cobblestone? A Parisian stair?

Maybe you found me outside that coffee shop in Boston.

There’s a streak of green on your side – is it Viennese?

Perhaps it’s Guilford moss, or from the walk in the woods around Oxshott.

you have walked with me, far,

I wish I could put you back.


arms draw out

in black, which soaks up light safely

and leaves bright contrast in limestone

I rock, smoothing the surfaces across each other until


A touch of acid and gum, the image fizzles

washed away carborundum

resin dust could give you cancer. So could asphaltum.

but etched in stone is family.