zoom out

spot the patterns

I am prime

No is complete

I choose 


over plots, however 

L’uomo Vitruviano bows

his golden ratio to my feet


shuddering trees


When foot falls atop pavement, 

even the wind, Lent et d é tach é

smells of Air de l’ordre,

spilling it’s golden ratio out

stuttering palimpsest of 

humane ‘vestigates

I do believe in Rituals

But I also believe in accidents

like La Mer

or φillo,,,,… perfectly crumby

blooming flour on a plate

the spiraling dreams you see

staring back up, Narcissus

in your coffee cup

but which point is node

and which is zenith?

O, o, narkao, narkao

Leave me to the daffodils…

Hello? Who’s there?

Who’s there?