she talks in cursive, mainly,

a third grade throwback

of cursing conversive
 
 
 
that tittles i’s

in hearty

rhetoric.

red Caps of

illegible drawl

–girly–

–surly–

& curly

cued

conversation,

overdone in

~looping edicts~

& unnecessary crosses

scrawled, and squalling,

and me without

white space to spare…

white out obsolete,

and X’cised from scripted curriculum.

she’s a super girl,

though

–so

she tells me—

a truly super girl

lost in translation

and her missing booth

in which to change…

a third-rate

spinoff,

& anecdotal antidote

to distract a cryptic Knight.

there was so

much

I wanted him to know

–but there were no

emojis that expressed it–

only words. . .

i wave. . .

to no one

(thing)

in particular,

and undeclared

im (i’m) potent

in (in) finite

possibility

it was burning weather

. . .

flames fell from the sky

and wind whipped pines

morphed to rotisseries

. . .

skewering wildlife

in terrified transit

The elephant in the room

led to day-drinking. . .

ensconced in studio equipped with

hot plate,

bath-free bath,

and screened window of fluctuating size,

the addition of Babar

made the  claustrophobic closet

one paciderm too populated

–and margarita short of Taco Tuesday

the elephant wasn’t too blame. . .

the work-around I employed

–learning to scale walls—

hinged on equipment given to error,

and the work-around he found

–at Christmas office parties, and stultifying family gatherings—

was sporadic at best

since despite his edge

of maleness,

whiteness,

and impressive trunk & toenails,

there just wasn’t much call for

white elephants, anymore

–particularly offline

The day-drinking fed

into night drinking

–hapless hours in which the tusky fellow also partook, and by the gallon–

me, trying to forget,

and he, completely unable to, possessed as he was

of regrettable long-term memory—

all of which ultimately resulted

in photosensitivity

–on my part—

and sticky skin

–as far as he went—

I tried coping. . .

purchasing pair after pair of drugstore sunglass,

but no matter the tint,

Babar always looked in the pink

when I wore them. . .

pirouetting despite the notable lack of pomp & circus,

–doubling down when I rested-

his coping mechanisms

were understandably murkier. . .

comprised of Wild Kingdom reruns,

shelled peanuts,

and mammoth hangovers,

–but then. . .

so were mine.

if successfully executed,

the sighing of Sue

is always

passed tense. . .

the

expulsion

explosive

–shattering ear drums

–disrupting inspiration

–altering heart beat

the

sound

resounding

–finite

–infinite

–foreshadowing unending silence that marks all end.

best, then– to

sidestep Sue

(if you see her coming!)

given to melancholia,

and gifter of such,

you just

can’t be

in her

present,

overly long.

I was writer

blocked

–mind fully unfriended–

and I could no longer s’talk my thoughts. . .

much less comments

on ‘em,

I could only guess

at the storm of them

–the I of them–

hidden by her’cane

and stumped,

(both to & fro)

my soap box crumpled underfoot

–faded in Tide–

words held service

but died

–TOT–

(German for: tip of tongue)

wake unwoke

–no 11^th hour speech–

just splish-splash of whitewater from

wee hour ships

(in parallel universes)

–ice-berged or not,

here they stall!

chattering teeth

conforming

(as indicated)

in exterior smile

–less that irksome ocular involvement–

ripostes

echoing

. . .

distorting

. . .

bouncing

(like yore steps )

in underbooked auditorium

–a monotonous, comforting matinee–

preserving

neck’s integrity.