the sun was a fetus in the sky,
when my leg walked away from home.
when I get back, the sun would be old,
weak, and dead.
i will hug the chair with my backside,
with my bag, take off my clothes, watch,
necklace whilst sitting. i will slit the throat
of the bag, bail my PC, earbud & charger:
all, i will drop on the table.
every recommendation and frustration,
every appointment, and disappointment,
the right & the wrong words
i speak, or hear:
everything, i will drop on the table.
i will move to the shower,
soak my stinking self in the bathtub.
there, i will drop the sour smells of shoon,
of sweats that wreath my skin.
the last things i will drop on the table is,
my sight, my fear, and my life
then lie beside its feet, like chicks & hen.
now, that's what a table does!
what makes me move like a track
it carries, like an onion skin—
a dead fly on the face of the sea.
Josh Pampam: “Currently, I'm working as a moderator for a poetry Institution, and building myself up to be a good poet.”