Tuesday, June 3, 2014

As a Matter of Routine I Often Do Not

My habit is to have erased you before
blushing not only to myself.

To love you inconveniences musterable bravado,
unaccustomed as I am to having a defense budget.

Mourning turns away from ritual because of rasping.
The furniture belongs here where you planted it.

She tends to skin. She limbers toward antagony
from which offspring rise unencumbered.

Make me a million that I cannot form from scratch.
Allow me to introduce intentions I have learned.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Whose Idea Was this Friendship

I don't remember being cajoled into an intimate connection. Rather, there was incremental paring that removed some of the edges that defined a personality I no longer recollect. The downtime that I used to relish lifted off. Now I hear my voice thin in a middle distance between heart and Rolls Royce parked out front. The lambent oligarch of sentiments, enlisted in the annals of decision solitude. I want to worth; I want to navigate the constancy. I want to camisole my way into a chosen drudgery that pays instead of smiles at my devotion. Any viable injunction ought to have been paid out of the general fund, not siphoned from my feathers often ruffled, tidy as they often are. The learned journals of my posse venerate what for each one of us bled more than a single time.Constituencies break into obedience. Do you read me? Patchwork wilts. The name of a store at the bottom of the road. Once. When there were minor features to discuss. When I would sled home. When there was lumber in the fireplace and thick snow upon the shingled roof. Present tense, my germ, my lambkin.