I love drawing from the world – almost anything, almost everything – ingesting, sensing, feeling, digesting (transforming, processing) into me to pass it on again.
I love the encounter of humans – frightening, fragile things – the desire and revulsion our fullness brings.
Hope. Dread.
I hope to be loved and wanted.
I dread the opposite.
As if it were about me.
As if there were a thousand suns
And we were one of them
Time doesn’t work that way.
It’s been called an arrow
but it’s likely not –
likely wrinkled, warped and bent –
just like us
giving life to it.
Love is like this.
Like our memories.
I remember clearly what is incorrect –
if anything’s erected so.
I doubt it,
along with me and you and everything else…
just enough to believe.
Polysemic Stupor 
I especially liked the stanza about time, a description of it being anything but straight, and the resonating comparison of it with love and memories.
thank you
Very full of corners, crumpled dimensions, a sweetness of strange equation.
It will be a gibbering, an extinct language, a map of lost continents and drunken drowned pyramids. It will be an hullucination of grey spaces, the ramblings of a senile archbishop, the over-elaborate orchestrations of a genius fop. It will be a universe distracted by its own impossibility, forced to invent a language to replicate some linear order. It will be a flash of poetry flickered across a white noise sceen. It will be a ball bouncing down an empty street. It will be a simple rice bowl explaining everything. It will be radiant dust, dancing.
Time’s travels and travails are certainly extensive and vast, but it is doubtful that it follows the straightness of the arrow. It is indeed ‘wrinkled, warped and bent’, like a scrap of paper on which is written history’s innumerable stories.
you guys all say more than i’m aware of! and so beautifully and necessarily – thank you!