It
sits with irony. It dies with breath. Plus, its contradiction. / Those diamond
rules. Those rudiment curses. And it taunts existence. / A powerful mixture.
Those dreary sentences. Or this erased future. / Such riveting agonies. Such
cultural differences. Such mud and grime and webs. / Those paper friends. Those
endless notes. Our caskets filled with pencils. / So devasted. So elated. A
featured pencil. / Something aching. Blue grassy scribbles. Our abrasive
torque. / Those pencil phones. This ringing eraser. And so indecisive. /
Needing assistance. Never without company. So deeply social. / But a tear. So
dissociative. So anti-gregarious. / Pure paradox. Or mean contradiction.
Analyzing foibles. / Unspoken voices. Looking and longing. So vocal—so loud—so
hidden. / Those rumor rocks. Those treacherous bulwarks. Our cavalier oaken
roots. / Too simplistic. Too controversial. Such treason and betrayal. / So
needy. This life-given guide. Those bedside erasers. / So astute. Too clever.
While pleading its creation.
Nice
at times. But always defensive. Clocks and hands and taunts. / So human. So
inanimate. Such a natural persuader. / Too inept. Too disciplined. As it sits,
beckons, and pouts. / A pavement timer. An impatient patient guest; or abstract
concrete. / Our tired weariness. Our armchair debates. Those neighbors on our
table. / This ink-cousin. Such envy renounced. Such feigning by passivity. /
Our ceiling rains. This mudslide kindles. Our early concentration. / To die
forever. Searching for adventurers. Or reading Latin at five. / Our German
pencils. Their germane uncles. At an Egyptian eraser. / So filled by threats.
This interior operator. Or this field of loquats. / Our Mulberry language. Our
inconsistent seconds. While life was sweeter in pencils. / Notwithstanding;
this film in pixels, our pencils ranting and raving and flipping tables. / Our
charges. Our screams. This intimate tyrant
Our
ghetto pencils. Our ink-pen cartridges. That manicured lawn. / That chitzsu.
Those roots. This African flute. / Our dearest escapes. Our comatose mothers.
This bleeding diary. / Begging for friends. In a friendless land. To hear a
pencil screaming. / Our remote feelings—so abstract—while midnight appeared
terrific. / Baptized at seven. Baptized at twenty. So baptized missing this
promising eraser. / Our courage to write. Our courageous deaths. Such musical
pencils. / Afraid to fail. Laughing with features. Abused by ink. / Those
perfect emotions. This perfect defect. Or socially but less than a pencil. / So
brave to abasements. So core and affected. Walking this lifeless essence. /
Forced to create. Forced to assist. While most enjoy existence. / Mediocrity.
Or sensationalism. Or alone with too many pencils. / Our curses. Our triumphs.
Our radical pianos. / Intimate networks. Long life leniencies. Or so close
we’ve treasured platonic.
Blue
blazing billiards. Too crazed for normal. Or so jealous it’s by indifference. /
Our interior sylvan—our metaphysical realities, at this mental coppice. / To
resurrect as wood. To long for insistence. As tucked at displeasures and born
to darkness. / Socially outranked. Eternally outflanked. So dearly erased. / At internal strikes. Giggling with
squirrels. Aborted but gunning.
