I like to think of myself
As a plank.
Not a piece of wood
Inert
Cold
Dead.

Rather
I am a plank
the pilates move.
I'm Alive
and I move
Air and blood flows
and I breathe
But I am solid
Grounded
Strong.

Until I lose my focus,
I am strong.

When my mind wanders
or I forget
My Core
I shake
I tremble
And I begin to feel
what a precarious position
I am in.

Destruction, and the ability of the world to continue.

It is morning, around ten.
My pot of tea
Sits unassumingly next to my cup
and saucer.

A sugar cube rests
on my saucer,
white,
sparkling like the sand
on a perfect beach.

I drop it into my cup.
It sits,
askew,
waiting.

Lifting my pot of tea
and tipping it
I release a maelstrom of heat
and wet
wiping the sugar cube away
leaving brown tea.
Sweet,
sweet brown tea.

The steam rises
from the brown tea,
and the news
comes on CBC.

Morning Rythm

I'm woken up most mornings
By either a gentle mix of piano
and a delicately played flute,
or Colin Meloy apologising to Steven
for losing his bicycle again.
I have friends who say
that morning wood is the best way
to start a day,
but I am of the opinion
that this is better,
and easier to clean.

My head 2

My Skull
Contains treasure
In the form of squishy bundles of neurons
In and of themselves
They are nothing
But like all of us
On this Earth
Nothing is ever
In and of themselves

My Head

Mush
In my head
And beyond
Pushing out
Expanding
But having to deal
With a constricting environment
My skull

Today

I snapped my neck
Cracked my fingers
Typed an email
And sipped coffee
Then went home
And lazed around
Chatted with a friend
And laughed
Then I slept
And dreamt of you
And how far away you are
And breathed

Me

Up
Down
Cancels out
And I'm level