I am becoming my own
most abstract concept.
Silver-shadowed nights
are made for ordinary people
to dance on the moon.
Like noodle soup
from the ceiling,
pieces of me
lie about the floor.
and dry rot has come back.
Always dry rot and termites
and memos.

I wake up one morning to realize
I don’t know what I do on Sundays
and can’t remember who my friends are.
A week is never the same as the last,
nothing is built upon the past.
There is no progression. A constant
random motion. Often in circles,
frequently repetitious. Always alone.
Pressure building behind my temples.
I cannot order my mind.
Blues and yellows run together.
Everything is green
and it is raining.

Letters make poems.
Poems turn into grocery lists.
I say over and over A precedes B,
therefore, B follows A.
But what is A?
An ink print on a paper.
A visual image in my mind.
A product of my own imagination.
Play what if?
In the morning if I do not create
myself I do not exist. I stare
at my reflection in the mirror.
I am the product of my own imagi-
nation, the result of my own