Like, not a poem

Yesterday I
opened the lockbox
got the key
closed the lockbox again.

Unlocked the door
went in and put my bag on a chair
walked back out
locked the door.

I opened the lockbox again
put the key back in
and closed it.

Tried to open the door
and it was locked
and I was confused

and it took me like five minutes to try to remember what just happened and where my bag was.


In 2017 I got to experience all the different seasons, and even in the right order. In summer I moved to Florida, autumn I flew to Japan, and now I got some winter in Sweden.

And there’s no transitions. Just an airplane, and then autumn leaves. Airplane again, and my feet were in snow.

(I like the colour and taste of the world. I like to try out the shape of it, like the way it fits under my feet.)

But I miss its pulse. The first flowers in spring. The slow rains and long autumns before snow actually covers the grass one day. I miss hearing the world breathe.

Artists grow old. (hearts gain weight, or maybe sight). Like the aging Monet who painted the water lilies in his garden in every different light, every different season. Like Hokusai’s series of thirty-six different views of Mount Fuji.

(I think they learn, that)

There’s everything to see. But there’s also everything to see in every thing.