buds

In the adopted state of repeated
mortal vulnerability,
the dizziness of the nominal emptiness
finds slight bliss in the simple
existence of a question
asked in my hypothetical direction.
"I exist!"
The ease of endlessness
ends with the one-to-two-time
pleasantries as if that is all
we live for-
surrounded by giggling
inhibitions
teetering along with the
teething certainties of something.
"The concept of the muse
of the muse amuses me too."
"Yes, I agree with the lascivious
nature of nature."
"You too, have taken the
guided tour of self-expression?"
"Oh no. It's just a quick spot
to grab lunch on break."
If this effort isn't interest,
what is it? "Decency?"
I think I'll go be alone
for a while, or so.

Content and Disconnect

I

Live Oaks East of the Mississippi

The only difference being the salt jumbled in the divided atmosphere, she told me rather perfunctorily of the formulated life detached. Feeling at all, realizing my work has just been a hobby, plushed through the sympathetic aperture in a streaming search for adjectives, we’ve dredged the bridge to silent curiosities discovering wakefulness amongst other deviant childhood falsities. This town’s discordant philosophies tend to dangle spring through spring like question marks on the run. All it takes is one proper rubber band to make a smile. A rose to the moon absentmindedly lisps: “Later, I’ll be there for you. We’ll preoccupy ourselves with forgetting how to write, staining our chastised bodies with grass and sunlight. You’ll fill my lines with hieroglyphic obscurities and I’ll paint the fleshy fragrance of your chirruping dreams (pink, don’t you think?) until we both run out of pencils or simply evaporate Himalayically. How does that sound?”

The echo reverberates beyond sight.

II

Self Expression of a Dandelion

baby-

why haven’t you forgotten

my fate supposes

pre-supposes

all while dandelion crosses

dandelion.

smelt purloined,

grinningly

came to me,

isomorphic education

included. teaching the

children antitheses

aposiopesis mis-

connected and

opportunity. behind

with feeling and

life and box matches

lit, all wind repented

by dusk today

III

As Thrips

from the tip of the tip

we do not prune

frantic as a fuddled white finch

flapping its quips

boastful as winters pruning sits

taking note of every ripple ripped

The nitwit becomes the cutie and becoming

the cutie never says “What do I say?”

The hooded elders process, differentiating branches brittly

with aspirin, napkins glowing into the night.

Trailing audibly, my breath absorbs every “hey moon.”

Softly hummed bebops cover the soon to be dew

with the energy efficiency of a resonant prude.

The scheduled neighborhood blackout arrived with malice.

“Why do you say things like this?” I don’t know.

“Do you sing?” I don’t. “Do you dance?”

I don’t. “I see. That seems to make sense.”

The tender moon broke apart and fell into the sea,

steadily refracting your memories to me.