alike to a campfire those winds the valley
filled with butterflies. upon sewers to gutters to alleys; from downlow, to up
high, to in-between; upon significant infant, to insignificant adult, to
restitching self-esteem. didn’t know much, lessons formed values, music over a
covenant, too close to the beating heart. made alien, aye-aye innocence,
bathing in ignorance. foot to pavement, another long road, another recorded
memory. oiling hinges, trimming hedges, listening for the cosmic Lawyer;
pleading against me, angling to unroot me, I wouldn’t say he laughs. a book on
Bukowski, another lady’s piano, a little violin, a little self-pity, angered
about the skies bleeding. aside a magazine, formed an image, I have a time
trusting her aura. a longer train track, a freight of goods, to sit atop a
mountain. I would love, or like to love, asking ridiculous ass questions: what
is poetry? what is a museum? while suggesting, she’s the poetry—the museum. not
much about opera, with a deep grievance, we color our souls until it’s hard to
smile. poison or weeds, language or unspoken—with much in reserve. I met a
diligent woman—her plans were coming to fruition—she was eager to sacrifice …
the boundaries of the woman, the arts of the soliloquies, the inner monologues;
she reaped heaven, she portraits hells, like many, there’s much un-arrested—the
chime of the cello, the season of the fox—the trifle cry of the magnet. church
and guitars, cigarettes and matchboxes, pain and watchwords—life as in hues, octopus’
agility, jogging faster, embedded in upper echelon. I wouldn’t move her—though the
struggle is tender—it drives a soul to madness: creating like unborn, estranged
from knitting the deaths, gripping more to what is loved; the inner ransom, the
larger sun, the symphony bluebirds!
