Blunt Services

And there you sit, waiting. We both go to psychiatrists, forsaking the old farmhouse.
The hand remembers the pitch-black arrows when the room had been transformed,
Rusting nails mistaken for fields of woodgrain. He persists in speaking to me off premises
Of tangles meant to last a day, yet they thrum the broken teeth of the comb too close

To know of your tactful agreement. Among variant musicians it pleases: a room transformed,
Embargoed by rebellion, 
...

In Praise of the Messy Desk

Not rather drunk

Wartime Chrysalis

Quite unprepared for anyone so exotic, with quoting fingers. 
The sky speaks again among its tame birds, as if every profession
Seals beneath itself monuments, and seeks a sloth's strip of garden.
For that requires tears in the true performance. Both's need to play
The lion finds only the mollusk separating us. Supposed their clothing
Is worn, the number of times they have been performed as people, no one had to plead--


Pastry simply imitated, and a passion was born. One might plead
Vision collides with a kite or sounding rocket, worse yet the fingering
Of Love's usual calm self--upsetting the meringue--by which a dart unclothes
The entered apprentice. Then my breasts didn't amount to much, a profession
Quite unremarkable. Sure enough, those pink sandstone miracles permit the play 
Of streets below their lattice, an obeisant trumpet vine up and over your garden

Gate. Perhaps a breath of reason scratches your face away, or gardens
Were no longer facts of individuals, though the wreathes they plead, 
The laurels or Lenten roses, one will sometimes excavate to play
Upon us mourners of feminine besmirchment. If something to finger
Polish at the dog fight. Overcoming a great deal of nerves professed
Before a disappointed silence; except for the click of a pedometer, the clothes


Adapt themselves before the contents of a paintbox, sixteen paces in new clothes
Before I recognize myself in three lovers. From a treason cell, I enrich my garden
With handbills of local legends. I approach them with the steps of a dancer professing
A self-conscious, if cross-legged, posture before the privy to the public. I plead 
To be delivered up to its genius. Or probe the softened ivory, or is it camembert, fingering 
Finally who's the bastard. Besides those nondescript fillers in curriculum, I've played


This form's coordinates far too long, yet the shape of my library is round, playing
Up the composite and contretemps until today's salmon pencil is ground up. The clothes
Most likely admired are shredded, seeking to show prospective friends the finger where
This sector's determined and created through accidents, where a heart orders its garden
Even this is largely inaccurate, because the theater will be dark. The beer saucer pleads
For casualties and an audience's patter of applause or is it staggered egress? Professing


My mind hear my tong, perhaps the healing comes with the over-painting, a profession
Confined to various research trips through Facebook profiles or wholesale bids on Mock Turtle.To play,
Is to saw the legs off your precarious throne. How this little musket of mine shoots the pleading
Face card; accompanied by many spirited words, my love. Once begun, these many clothes
Release me any time from my hopeless workday. Before your shuttle working up a garden
Tapestry of mylar threads. Disbelief trails somewhere close behind. I took myself, all fingers


Intact, off into the open air professing card tricks or friendships with girls. With manicured fingers,
Guiding the vibratory knives of mowers and novice keyboards, the pleading lover hangs up her clothes
For she is burned by the sun; and suddenly unstoppable, looking backward to solitary play in the garden.