mystery clock
hangs from lights where worms are wiggling.
I know my lot.
others are favored. never a gray area.
I take a sickle to
dynamite. I shield best as possible. nails are in my coffin. near tracks are
rocks gray-blue in color. a train is raving, taupe dust is rising, I leap,
latch on, ride due distance. nothing but water, a pouch of marbles, passing
another corner market. so free so much vision our skies are filled with colors.
I exit, while running as to stifle a falling. I wait for my return, walking
slowly. crates of lumber ask for a treehouse, a coupe, or a trial to resale it.
mother is at home. rumors plague her sickroom. her doctor is out of town. I eat
sawdust in my joy with a phoenix in my liver. an unhappy joy an unmanageable
sorrow, or morose ambition. years would approach. no longer wearing a shag. in fact, wearing rolls, braids, considered a curse. a frozen attitude. a hankering
for wines. a funeral for deliverance. tailoring pictures, no longer words, it
seems to come if we’re patient. rarely, a harm to self, more a watcher of seas,
more a man knowing the interior of humankind.
I eat wheat these
days, followed by brand, analyzing for it seems joyous. so enwoven in you,
vigil of internal motion, realizing some folks are adorable. a patient pain,
knowing beauty is alive, so much art so boundless.
some type of humor
as a watched man where paranoia isn’t an option. to mean in opposite every
fucking word out of your mouth. I shouldn’t speak it, for these are normal,
while I play with an old guitar. there’s a deep conundrum, where ours is
suspect, off the bat, while minds interrupted are final authority. it makes it
glee, to talk like stupid, where we might hope for a sullied attraction.
