A practical list of the thing I have not, will not, or cannot fix

the chisel gap wedged between my front teeth my left windshield wiper, my screen protector, my screen, the four tiles beneath my sink: heinrich, stooley, waldorf, and moe, the second and third light bulbs, my thrift store painting, my bungee cord, my longsword’s crossguard, my dice bag, my website, my tax relief, my scalp and the scalp after, my didgeridoo, my mayan souvenir, my providence, my blender, my tomahawk head, the USB port, my deep noon, my bird voice, my lanyard noose, the first belt loop, my threaded spool, my dry vocal cords, my nose, my right loath sclera, my locking thumb, my hoax, my courageous double, my afterthought, my mouse colonies, my mice, the lamp whose shatter hangs cordial like half-lit guillotine, my dues, my don’ts, my do not disturbs, my disturbances, my ice-maker, my speaking terms, my formal terms of surrender, my colon, my first stain, my singularity, my sortie, that sudden stoppage of null, my old ways, my weight, my front right burner, my bad day, my time sink, my grant proposal, dinner (C) James Cole, 2021

Optomotor

I’m watching a creature who watches a screen

a watchman who watches and knows what he’ll mean

when they ask and he tells, and he tells and they ask

about purpose that’s pickled in each daily task

And the music of quicksand like metal will melt

when the crucibles bellow the furies they felt 

They say it’s for knowledge, but knowing is cheap

I can know the whole world if I get enough sleep

A moron can learn all past works of the dead

and still in the present have shit in his head

To understand anything is to understand less

so damn all deductions and let’s make a guess

or profess our stupidity, straight and sincere

find clarity clearly in all that’s unclear

So, do I believe this? Eh, I don’t know

It could be that today is especially slow

I oft throw off caution and except what I mean

when I’m watching a creature who’s watching a screen

© James Cole, 2019

Those Letters Never Measure

Worldling, you are my confession—

I’d like to have a word with the man in the sea

when you sing your kyries don’t sing them at me

Dry throated dream, you test my patience

with your pageantry and your killing spree

each—each—each—

I didn’t know how to speak

Your shadow swallows words like

snake jaws so immune to moderation

skin and stone, sit and roam

I’ve given the nod, please take me home

ohm mani padme ohm

Um mani padme um

Our Father, with heart of seven

hollow be thy shame

Thy kingdom won, 

thy will be, will be—

we’ll be old one day

What can you say to me then

that hasn’t already been said?

It’s been a year, 

I’ve folded myself into a sigil 

Those letters never measure

what matters meant to me

they busted lust in Boaz

and on the shores of Galilee

Working magic, bread and fish

even Jesus made a wish

And when the night grew tired

You stripped bare the sacred flaw

but your hair against the hearth-flame

was the most perfect sight of all

what little heart we muster

thunders on the deep

I hear it every morning

and before I go to sleep

© James Cole, 2019

Chaos magic sigils
by Rune370
from Wikimedia Commons