Apparently, on 3/15, I sketched this from an “empty mind”, since that is how a titled it. This has not undergone any editing, and is just my rattling on before bed, I guess.

 

Shoes and patches and wood, slatted and warm

And rumpled life gathering on dust and curling on the carpet

And dreams on the windows and the sun catching them on summer mornings

And trinkets and tickets and junk and jumbles, sheets of paper, black dots of pitch on the snowy smile, cloth like jungle colors trip the eyes and feet.

 

This is actually based on the mess in my room. The line about “black dots of pitch” was inspired by sheet music, and led to another haphazard poem:

 

Music, 3/17

 

My hands are racing, dance to match my flickering eyes,

Follow the trickling paths ahead.

Skip, jump, high and low and black and white,

And fading from mark to mark, like jumbled child’s play,

Jumping rope at vivace.

Eyes flickering, following the black dots of pitch,

Still on the snow.

Their silence commands my trembling dance,

My heartless, faithful playback

Of melted holes in the ice.

 

I really like certain lines, like “jumping rope at vivace” and the metaphor of pitch on snow, but I would like to point out that playing piano isn’t really “heartless” and I’m not sure how that ended up in there. I think I might disassemble this and try making something else of it. Give me a few years, I might get back to it.

 

Nah, hopefully sooner.