used books

i used to love used.

digging around
in the bookshelves of
thrift stores, goodwill;
wandering around
Valencia St.

i used to need used.

the history of a book,
that familiar smell
that lingers on the fingers,
a faint flavourful
mustiness.

i used to want used.

now, that simple pleasure
exploited and removed
by a capitalistic tendency
to make good,
and suddenly.

i’m used to feeling used.

des beaux arts

Le monde entier
regarde des beaux arts
comme une tristesse

my imagination wanders

a burning
a scorching
a singeing

deep into the soul.

(the imagination
wanders)

a freezing
a restricting
a controlling

the acid kiss
of jealousy

goes deep,
deep,
into

the pensive void.

the coldness
pushes its way through,

right to the heart of

the addiction.

rocky place haiku

Stuck between a rock:
Knowing what I feel, not
feeling what I know.

suspended

suspended,
in space,
between the
iridescent glow
and the chilling
fog.

suspended,
in time,
the clocks
stuck in the
moment
whilst I tour.

suspended,
in place,
feeling the taut,
brittle,
tightness,
of the solitude.

suspended,
in phase,
looking over
the edge into
the future
as the past

suspends belief,
and the wind
reaches over
for the cold,
crisp,
water below.