I am shipwrecked next to the shell boy next to the war patient brandishing the war patent for george malady I am karma's apprentice changing bodhisattvas skins in the brooklyn labyrinth I stretch this poem over the void to plug the soul leak in the bleeding fountain I paint hours with art stains when grenades slip in between the hands of time I store my indigo bits in the nibiru database I am the watcher I am the minefield.
when the daylight starts to dive beneath Midwestern doldrums and I am resigned to own them all my life I venture to the lifeline of Lurlene
when retractions travel fast enough for glee to be refunded I decide to chew the fat with Ms. Anxiety herself: Lurlene
a cable network isn't worthy of my lifetime but I better how I feel when turning left into the dampness where awaiting is the queen Lurlene
insolvency is habit forming says her nibs in fitful repartee I pray under my breath while I await arrival of Lurlene
in a moment of nutrition I collapse under the weight of others' yearning just as sustenance becomes the weak link to the nefarious warm inklings of Lurlene
I wash dermatological invective left unstrained while being poured baptismally across the young scrubbed foreheads of the rancorous Lurlene
i owe you the time of a second perhaps a mad gesture of truth how unbelievable the cynics win your heart i owe you the rest of this thought before it never was
churns in hair: oceans should convince me, tangled ivy and swirling are from the century's bend: action, the I penetrates afternoon air
stain of the is: tossing their incredulity: sadness falling from what been sinister beards: succumbing: conceal: the knight has flowers: the from open windows, gothic: lemon of me, no chalky white I could live deconstruction and its strange mandala flesh: metaphysical eyes: alcoholic people moving for so long, the hydra
we glyphs rising slowly, forever in doorways: going to feed the landscape to the snow of imagination: gently about my philosophy from perhaps to bones, pungent after most complex strangulations plant themselves in its cut of music: perfection: it's within my cold but matter: onto your precious rhymes with me
i love the way you don't feel pressured to finish a thought if it's better left alone... (i.e. 'the perhaps' was a nice touch. i do this too because it says it all sometimes!) :)
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