The Pointless, Composed of Countless Points


Amid a mindless flipping through days,
the shiny black Cuisinart coffee maker came.
Otherwise, yesterday was a breath
expelled during the pleasant sitcom.
Luckily, autumn is on its way.
Coffee and oranges. Last year,
not a drop froze outside in Oakland,
just a cold misting the clouds sighed down
rather than spat. Blaugh.
But before then, wood smoke,
a stray red tree. Oranges!
Give me a vase in November
and I may smash it,
for I, of multitudes,
cannot explain myself then.
In March I can,
when oranges grow watery
when my mind becomes a lentil soup,
well-seasoned though each sip the same.
Cheops is a place,
I told myself last winter
though I never looked it up,
such was the state I was in.
Then spring vacation came
and my mind unclenched itself.
It was a pharaoh!
April-Masin, half-crazed and waiting,
don’t laugh at these Masins
which fall before you.
Soon you will be gone too
and what will June-Masin make of you?
I have this tendency
to perceive myself
as the center of everything.
How else does it work
with eyes and ears?
Just outside my apartment,
two teenagers shriek with laughter
as they pretend to push
one another into traffic.
They are expanding the frontier of friendship.