August 27th, 2009 · No Comments


Closed like blinds on an afternoon of what
Is going on beyond, could be a musical,
Could be a massacre, or an opportunity
To fall in love with one or two selves

That illusion best kept in place
By a velvet rope that frames
That heavy, satin curtain, collecting
Splices of memories, condensed

With aspirations, the music of a long
Drive soundtrack, or an unidentified
Artist whose been pirated from a salty
Brain, lurking in weekend bars or cafes

The skin of lamps appear to feel
No heat, the vegetation may combust
And with an insight to lust, a canon of
Empty verse in can-opened condensation

The voltage of connection varies like
Microwavable dinners, wine glasses full
Of water, always close the lips
Around teeth, tips for dining room

Etiquette published in newspapers, taped
Over urinals and instructional photography
Like stickmen in your favorite comic strip,
The grapefruit breakfast appetizes

The appeal of being full, satiation
A minstrel’s escape from subjective
Sanitation, listless saturnelia
Throwing open a curtain, tossing

Off clothing, peeking under faces
Tucked in with plush sheets, as
Frogs rest on lily-padded tongues.

Tags: 2009 · AP Issues · Poetry · September 2009

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