How much more
to drop a bomb on us?
Luring doubt
from the den,
which was an
affable sprite
who sought
the very nice
and only
just gave up.
Who owns the onus
of stuff like this:
that the stockpile
of drugs ran out
when the hurting
returned, that the
haircut was a result
of not cutting,
the green stripe that
got wider
on one side?
wild, did you
not drop the /e/
to camaflouge
your first footfalls
on Ellis Island?
In your havoc of
research, missed
the chorus and
two verses
that're everywhere?
It is all off.
The lines then
must meet,
refract past
one another
and show a red stripe
beneath.
You escort
doubt back
around
the old environs,
introducing him
the the Pashmina scarf
that was popularized
during his absence.
Worlds are like this:
a set of little wheels
and a slip, a jersey
plinth and spam boat,
a thunder
of recognition
and resounding
disappointment
when the legs
did not
go all the way up
but stopped at the crotch.
Coming back
down with a bout
of finding the
fine eyes
in some way
inhospitable
and the evidence
beer left.
And wild intoned:
"It's the over-forties
at one table. And
I'm on the bitch-stick."
And true enough!
Doubt went dumb,
didn't know
which one
to talk to less.
Both seemed
a mess. If
the whip hand
was the one that
one used to jerk off!
what a feat
that would be!
of life
reunited!
The lip cleft
on one,
the anglicizing
brother (wild)
would not raise
indifference
but'd talk about it,
in a mire,
to the extent that
other people would.
And in that mud,
ire was not
the comatose
counterpart,
raising a child
toward indifference
and eventual
submission.
Doubt has
a prehensile appendage
and it is
slender.
Unto, again
submersion.
Yes. He was a nice boy
unto ire
and aspersions!
How is that?
That a smile
incurred sickness
and drove
him under earth
where the glance
wasn't?
Yes. He drove
the simpleness
to scurvy
of another sort.
Yes. He dressed
his hair
with crushed rosemary
and clumps of marjoram.
The car would
not start, yet
when it
did start
the drive
to leave was gone.
