Papers and Capers

Anyone care for some Cloisters?

A very simple non-memory

You are pinocchio, we share the same things in common
a wall covered in the thinnest of paper to denote the thickest of books
it is just like me, what are my hands but a few crumbled, browning napkins dangling
from the neck of apples?
A jar of dusty fruit butter weighs heavily on a metal shelf, it's glassy ass cradled
by the inverted crown of a circle stamped in hastily cut out cardboard squares
over the years it becomes spongy and soft, like what I had imagined prostrate cancer to feel like

The door opens and there's no one.
It's cool, it's all cool because I wasn't looking in the first place
my heart is a tight metronome at night, it's the lion who has tourettes in
a jungle of creases and fleeces.
At night cotton turns into blood and I wade in dimpled red

Is he looking? Did he stop one day, one nanosecond?
Does he feel like he lost? Like I feel...artificially whole?
Would he ride snow covered trains forming the narthex of countries,
splicing up continents like minimalist basilicas?

or is he content right now? a belly filled with accidental fish scales
old knees creaking against the branches that are his bones.
My bones.
The television casting a fluid ghost over his skipping pupils
breathing behind a pair of heavily rimmed, shit brown glasses while
his son, in frayed and loose shorts slap on the tiles with his feet
and slam into his quickly retreating lap for attention?

Maybe I'm above all that.