Keeping Lists

Calmest that I've ever felt.
Living/Nothing to do.
it seems enough-just to make lists.
or watch strange people. move/and move.
doing things without knowing why/except that it is meaningful and significant enough not to damage/contaminate one another.
peace lies in not questioning further into an infinite hole.
instead we pretend to satisfy in the field of white light.
keeping lists...
lists of sounds you hear, like the steam and 'swish' of an iron on a freshly washed scarf/it's sharp front digging into the soft material.
the rattle in a seagull's throat, as it flinches at the remains of an unwanted hot pie.
the hairdryer coming and going in it's hisses through long wet hair splashing on your face/the early morning light tinting your high ceilings.
harpsichord music played over the clicking of one's tongue and the strenuous mechanism of the typewriter/while your sister yells behind bathroom doors.
at the multiple parallel red lines new blades marked on her fingertip.
pencil on paper, handwriting flicking upwards/flamboyant.
loud, obnoxious laughter, seeping from a living room, with the clatter of tui cans and cheers over so-called elegant display of mankind in a game of cricket to escape vulgarity with which we carry ourselves.


keeping lists/funny words
keeping lists/habits and rituals
the essence of being man. creature comforts.
man photographing his feet every morning before stepping off his bed
girl with freckles who walks her dog up and down the stairs of her apartment
chintoque servant who walks the streets, carrying a notebook, transferring graffiti and sewing them onto paper like some new-age embroidery...
frogs raining from the sky, smearing blood on windshields, causing hearts to stir and cars to crash into one another.
keeping lists, of things we cannot say.
keeping lists, of things we cannot bring ourselves to speak of.
keeping lists, of things we are afraid to let out loud because it's in our minds all the time.