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the Minutes


 
We dwelled

in one story. . .

a concept coerced into agreement
 
 
 
 
–one

verse—

ongoing & incomplete,

this mash-up of styles,

is ruled & rigid

(constellations named, planets punctuating)

free & formless

(a stitch in time fabricated)

it’s a continuum

devoid of metaphor &

lacking nuance

–elliptical poem of all that’s imagined without imagery–

our universe

is cold

(and hot)

vast

(and suffocating)

–expanding outward in

relentlessly onward trajectory,

moving forward toward backward

–it’s every word in every sense–

a journey unlettered

or littered

by sensical signs

–equation

of far-fetched angle

(0. 1. 0. 1.)

–simple &

unsolvable–

the difference

a product

that to sum is a

force-fed “quota”

dispelling

–and spelling–

all unknown fear.

.

 

Butterfly Social


 
I like people–

you could say

I’m a people person

–it’s just women I have issues with. . .
 
 
 
imitation the least form of flattery since

when are mirrors friendly?

and one-upmanship not my

kinda boat

–for all we’re in the same one,

gender’ally speaking–

and well, men.

a fine line between love & hate

(quite like a jump rope, sometimes)

it doesn’t take much for

those characters to morph

–graphemes and guys both,

and more

like a high wire, really,

the best ones do merit a performance

–but don’t insist

and the worst ones always watch …

but I do  like people

overall—

I do!

it’s just particulars I could

do without.

Different Gaits


my

black dog walks me.

short-leashed

& choke-collared,

the treats I get

taste of tears

. . .

altogether too salty,
 
 

but I eat them right up

–with a spoon–

(left over from offal

amuse-bouche

and more plastic. . .

more sporky

than silver)

they’re chewy,

(these Pavlov treats)

as pointing fingers,

and hurt the jaw

clenched in a fist

–which keeps my smack-you mouth busy, at least

and aye,

and oh,

I like a busy mouth—

ringing my ears with

a tortuous whine too high

for anyone else to hear,

they hit my gut

exactly like a steering wheel going 60

–trussed in nots already—

(not this)

(not that)

but them there. . .

my instinct is to run,

but black dog meanders

. . .

me an’ her

meander

. . .

missing deadlines,

and ruing downtime.

 

 

Cookin’ Carbs

there’s mud in yer eye

so bottom’s up,

wash them peepers

with a cup

–of brew!

Salud!

and here’s to you!

a jolly fellow,

through & through. . .

so good as gold

my mind is boggled

vision, too,

in lager goggles.

Holla Gram

draw back drapes to life, and light

unveiling that magic fails

inherent act, not small nor sleight

 

–of hand that wipes from eye

the pixie dust, and tears in trail

draw back drapes to life, and light

 

–box shadows wire tight

hatched, not hopped, in netted jail

inherent act, not small nor sleight

 

–is hatted man concealing sight

all snarling hare that’s missing tale

draw back drapes to life, and light

 

–show blackens glove, once white

heart slipping then, from sleeve to scale

inherent act, not small nor sleight

 

–trick du jour, when darkest night

reflects, and mirrors pale

draw back drapes to life, and light

inherent act, not small nor sleight

Toes T


 
tired of

skirting the elephant

in the room

–I put it in the closet—

(it was a boy elephant anyway, a mammoth)

this required moving the itinerant

skeletons in wardrobe

(of lion, witch, and wolf)

which I shoved under the bed

–necessitating a need

to relocate the monster

dwelling there

and all its kooky crumbs

to my burrow

(a hole I’d dug for myself when feeling adventurous)

and full of socks

I’d never seen before

–and these I left…

hoping the monster

would

——

?

 

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