quoting Joel L. Lebowitz
while thinking about my mum

In the world about us

with its many points:::::

boiling breaking burning freezing melting
softening starting sticking tipping vanishing

the past is distinctly different from the future.
Time-irreversible processes, moving in one direction in time, define the arrow of time: coups d’état & tantrums cannot be undone.
The arrow of time has a pointy end. The arrow of time has no agenda. The arrow of time both pointful & pointless.
The entry point of understanding that

the past is distinctly different from the future
—the motherful past, the motherless future. 

I stand under the weight of it: 

the privative suffix pinned into my chest.
With the palps of my fingers I feel for

the exit point in the world about us. 

Cautionary Tale

                        A verywell-grounded rumor 

                        [mongered by bubblebees & butter-
                        scholars alike]

                        has it that a


                        is growing out of the kitchen
                        sink in apartment 23 (twen-


                        Fully armed with triangular
                        scales & purple florets, 
                        the sink-anchored baby is the spit-
                        ting image of an artichoke (domes-

                        ticated thistle).

                        This of course is further proof
                        that you should be careful

                        [what you wish for]

                        when wringing dreamsodden
                        socks in the kitchen sink:
                        dreamdregs are known to
                        impregnate unsuspecting piping. 

This body, etymologically

This body is a script.
This body is being written.
This body craves rhythm.

from rhythmus

from ῥυθμός (rhutmόs)

from ῥέω (rhéō)
This body flows.
This body runs. ῥέω = I flow I run I stream I gush
This body streams.
This body gushes.

This body wants.

Every look
    either long (you gaze)
    or short (you glance)
scansions this body.

from scansionem

from scansio

from scandō
When you look at this body,
you climb it, scandō = I climb
you turn it into

a fence a wall a tree a hill:

every look is eyes writing

on this body being written.