squid

with your two arms and two legs--
what kind of squid are you?


aren't you terrified
of the sea?


no beak, no cone head.
just those ocean-deep eyes.


but maybe your name
came another way:

when you were young,
i'd wrap my arms around you

so no one could tell
my arms were not yours.

.a.conservation.of.momentum.

People
writing
autobiographies are
like slinkies.
They stretch
forwards and backwards,
trying to recall passing
days
like stairs.
It's a race to one end or
another.

Or maybe, it's
more like a contest of sorts.
Not exactly a tug
of war, but like
trying to peel off one's
mind like a sticker
from the skin of
an apple.
Let the ripe flesh obide
gravity
and
replenish the
earth.
Let the sticker blow
away in
the wind, unable to cling
to much of
anything anymore.
Let it tumble to
the ground in
time, and with
the final compression of
empty silver
coils
it will also come to
rest illegibly
under the
dirt