the instant two immaterial paths cross, 
the silkworm starts her careful work
spinning supple strands with mindfulness.
they undulate like a symphony of sound waves,
communion braiding yarn between tin cans
cupped tightly around my yearning ear,
craving the vibrations of a distant ring.

when tongues tangle and tension mounts,
the once strong string threatens to snap!
two sides taking the brunt of the force.
i’ve feared the shock of something so strong
as the grim elasticity of an aged rubber band
or the arrow pointed at Marina’s hurried heart.

while the rope trembles and frays, a single grip loosens,
blood flow returning to a lone being, soon alone being
i am with tattered knuckles white with panic,
left to bleed out, a tourniquet unwound…
am i responsible for this sudden split?

now i’m mummified in serpentine string
reminiscing over a once impenetrable pipe
the silkworm sighs, her work undone
how could you hurt such a delicate thing?

another sorry soul surrenders twine...
triggers the sizzling zap of a power line…
to think i sharpened the knife i thought was benign...

the (dis)evolution of a string
stretched across a fading sunset

how could you hurt such a delicate thing?

i started crying because
i thought too short and too long
about the relentless passage of time

tears like an incessant saline 
drip 
drip 
drip
into the Salton Sea
as we marvel at life's toxicity

samsara, an endless cycle 
of birth and of death
spinning us dizzy into tomorrow
and the next and the next and 

i learned it’s impossible to unwind,
the spiraling illusion of the Twilight Zone
we exist between lightness and dark

time swallows everything with a beating core
the only thing eternal is its vacuum-like inhale
i watched my father’s face change from day to night

still i realize again and again and again
it’s really better that there’s no forever.
how could you ever love something that long?

age is the mold that creeps below the damp
it grows and grows and grows 
and we are dying and dying
and then we are dead

there are weeds consuming my mind
overgrown, unclipped, left idle, unbridled
dry wilting brown eclipsing limp languid green
withering away in a fractured terra cotta body
no wabi-sabi philosophy, a kintsugi passover
only fool's gold runs through my weary rivers
can you revive a dying disposition?