not being able to look past myself .................................................... without a terrible wordless ache ......................................................... and the wearing of the noses the elders knew

disintegration chronicle-alia 

I stopped listening 
and began 
to ape responding 

kneaded stanzas 
in woeful reflexives 
kneed intimacy's needs 
I am wired 
write jerked reactionary 
a poem faceless tasteless mob 

---------------------------

 arabesque 
roman tile 
bath 

I have a fear 
of certainty spaces 
so no spelunking 
I admit though 
I love the language 
of the dark side 
of the Moon 

she uses 
sunshine ex plain(s) 
and bane tool foolery shine 
and she is talking to herself 
most times 

it is a pure 
conversational genius 
an unfurling play 
of blind faith 
in sight 
and decline 
a slow 
to fury 
flowed 
breath-ing 
of interludes 
and tides 

---------------------------

mine-d 
mind 
bind by
bind sorted 
sordid songs 

what one 
might expect 
to hear 
when death 
arrives 
picking locks 

I do however 
sometimes pretend 
to realize 
for instance 
I say right here 
that any day 
can be that day 
for me 
to realize that 
to know anything 
is to be 
nearly gone 
and you see 
I have  
always 
wanted 
into 
last moments 

they are 
the bittersweet things 
that cling to smell
might have been(s) 
they are the ghosts 
that linger, without place 
they stop and stare 
where the words 
used to be ...


EJR ©