I am here with my suitcase to collect only the good brains.
—Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry
Chamber of ash left open.
Mythic entitlement wash-out made us witness
footprints I crush to register a slow descent.
A place to appear overly eager, unjustly relieved.
I hadn’t been hanging garlands, ineffectual geometry,
crossed streets & arrival circuits, an overdose on the outline
traced by falling in. The mice were still. Switch channels.
I’d say ease its own name, written on the lowest point
between broken instruments. Sew the house. Although it’s closed.
Admittedly, I could. But paper legislating geography, flowerbeds?
I rubbed backseat perfection. The glue holds the ground
so frozen nothing happens because we do it.
Like this I-think-I-can engine rides
an otherwise mimetic account.
Lighthouse out, equal sign to anything save contempt, spreading code pink in the not-quite-famous. I’m willing to flowerbed, stuck striking these illustrated pictures, perfectly reflective glass. Pulling teeth or trying to cull an ideal peach rotting a window ledge, a coat draped over footprints to refract the loved rain, an expectation of divinity. Immediately preceding the earpiece, standard philosophy, two threads to disregard differing modalities. Differing modalities considered disassembling the TV.
Snow-covered bird’s nest outside the next big motif. Later, a silent art. Beside fine print, why not a jar of its own syntax.
Things are mirrored next to belief.
Light in almond oil paint congeals, bubbles & the string is how we believe in the other.
Joy enough behind me somewhere.
A little sparrow choking.
A half-completed mock salute to harness willful redemption.
A fragment of conscience immediately preceding the ante.
A lie to the library.
The scattering mice. The fibers.
The framework of the barn’s red curtains.
Perfectly balanced plain jack-in- the-box psychosis.
Gut rot in the left-brain, right-brain paradigm, apart
from swerving into think-tank spillage.
Alters the left-brain, right-brain
paradigm apart gracefully.
Time passes or a city without
its diminutive song.
Aft, the oracular self
striking gross overstatements.
Think, vistas of architectural terms. Later, there’s not a landscape before settling down. You leave a knife in the context her paintings take back onto what? Locomotive sound, hooves rotting in two, hoping for these overindulgent pleasantries? One side has his implicit contract—gift-box deliverance, another telephone solicitation list? A litmus test in a joke of manipulative dogma. It’s the crowd. We agree on the leash, de-lead the weather in such abortive silence. I’m pure bull’s-eye for precisely such an exposed metronome.
I’d considered moves, differing modalities, considered
disassembling the trees or a commencement speech
lounging on the rocks, another fuzzy-diced measure of reason.
How ‘bout a heart saying: that way.
Someone’s fascinated by another Peter Pan statistic.
It’s like a kite will go out, wondering on a symbol? Maybe you can count on a correlative. If every photograph of a vertex like this afternoon dents itself into flange. To speed-read through terror cake seems overused. If you’re waiting, try extending. It’s taken their own ink to overdo it, a handmade atlas of empty unknowing strings in another week’s clemency.
Maybe cartography’s the dailyness of stargazer lilies.
I feel awful about nature, art & sediment rotation.
Splay the sludge, the foreground, to say
an argument? Starboard, a flame begins
by cupping the sun from first abundant
flower parts. Lacking in noise, in my
finite sense of oil paint. Starboard,
a visible form’s tangible notion of music?
Aft, the archer’s darkroom gear. Outside
the spot where mythic immediacy lacks.
Imagine being prone to bits.
It’s all boundaries, but consistent.
I left the last Saxon in the trenches.
The pipeline disappears. The pipeline disappears. The appearance differs.
Starboard, a dim sarcophagus. A cord crackles, holds workhouse skirmishes, some paregoric to entertain a visible river of happenstance melodrama. What’s precious in the red city caught the clouds past an offhand allusion. The pipeline disappears.
Winter ends. Laughter happens downstage. It’s serious motion. Two thin triangles of left-brain, right-brain paradigm, apart from the pavement. The last Saxon’s noise, a beacon leaning its soliloquy to gravity, a fig & the referents to call elision an otherwise drab parlor-room distinction. Flack battered in the haystacks. It’s all barreling back.