Another old, unstructured one from my early days of putting poems out into the world. It’s kind of frantic and haphazard, but there’s imagery I love in here. It’s about a few random things that happened over a weekend with good friends. Including a crush I developed in the night.

Poised To Stop To Break To Resume To Fail To Go Nowhere But Here

Four times a thousand flapping cellophane wings.
Sole purpose.
Lone Mission.
Mass Action.
To the death in an endless , hopeless quest for life.
Like me.
I stood among them,
I felt a oneness that is born only out of separation.

My brother who is not my brother felt it also,
But we speak only of trivial things,
like death at high speed and women.
We said nothing. Nothing of any weight.
Words are not pulled down and held down by the earth’s core like we are.

There was something about the bridge of your nose,
How angular, yet organically natural it is.
Like a genetic accident that, by mistake, created perfect symmetry.
Twenty-two over seven.
By mistake.
Division by zero.
By mistake.
And i usually hate that one-eye thing.
Two-dimensionally viewing the prism on purpose.
Cutting off your eye to spite your nose.
Futility in the name of aesthetics.
But i don’t mind. I forgave you immediately.
Not that you asked for forgiveness.

Chewed down.
I normally hate that, too.
I hate it because i can see it in myself.
None of this bothered me, though,
It only emphasised the solid perfection of your neck.
And i was only after smoke.
That’s why i didn’t notice;
I wasn’t paying attention.

Then, while sleeping in my mind,
The smoke, your neck, the wings, the car, my other self, time, weight and the sheer mass of my agony combined.

Division by zero,
by mistake.

I might have accidentally crossed out all the numbers and symbols that match and make the whole equation fail.
By mistake.
Division by zero?

We’ll see.

Gord Laws, 2008