just nostalgia and physics: one pump

The shore of the turquoise lake disguised as beginnings thick and fast—men ninety years old stack rocks four high—a forest of pebbles on the frame of perfect color—never mention—pictures in black and white here are all on purpose—Lama Michel took my hand and waited:

Eight days

in Ganchen monastery—touching my crown—I’ve realized I’m damaged—can I then leave the heavy woman laying there?—to an unsmoothed—there are inherent mistakes in relics—section of the Buddha’s base—the profile of nails—it would be silly to expect feet—his erect palm—a dull light or the imaginary notion of a light—many times we say light simply because we are awake—tore into my feet hot against the flame and desired itself—an instant—back 26,000 miles, two days, eight months—my mother sleeps and eats—I’ve tried to wave—waves—in time or by hand—are two-way streets—I cried—my open palm got me—I can’t rely on anomalies—but a good story teller convinces himself:

before my mother went into the hospital I got into bed with her in the middle of the night

dashes of Kelley—the discovery of waves—someone told me there was ground—I wake myself up from a lot of dreams—my dad’s only outburst of anger—that one is for me—clarity of the fragmented parts—discrete energy packets again-and-again—my last race—figures of travel play a role here—king tut costumes—I make’em from scratch each time—hills have cactus—loosely associated at best—suit coats with bleached hair—backlit by nostalgia—loose Alaska nights—doves dipping in flight—family photos stapled to wings are heavy—reflective of how I like to see things based on meters and days:

and she whispered:

the dome of the temple is a space reluctant for new stories—my mother—long brown hair cut off at the base of a scar like midnight Arizona—her hand on my face after I dropped a jar of pickles—alone and unspoken for those eight months—who knows categories—candles burning in unbroken clay—the night curves up here—a curtain pausing for one more door chime—I have to sleep in more than one place during a night—a long story about acoustics—eight weeks in Arizona’s gravity:

people are together, I’m glad.

Lama Michel rubbing the inside of my palm and reaching into his robes—I wanted to crawl in and write on the walls and loose track of the days—we walked Kora of the lake ten days—grass mourns the return of tickets—tiny towers made rubble by the wind—the monks always rebuild—never clean up—he rubbed a hole through my hand—I can see—hope hunts in the afternoon—my mother alone in her hospital bed—I knew the lake was turquoise—somehow I always knew color had a name—and he held my hand to my ear—like faint humming.