I focus on sounds
like the coffee
being made
am reminded
out here, readin' writin'
we are all
netherworlds
infinite insides
with things
we are, being
that which
we observe
though
nose knows
sight more
than eyes
how we lie
is what supplies
our paints, compass
easel and canvas
we do what demands us
to be still enough
to see our portrait by listening
to the scents
of popular versus instinctual
touch and taste
and when we make hasty
declarations of being, it softens us
dead diligent hearts hear hears-ted
and we again, are fooled by folly
forgetting, constructing universes to our liking
often destroys images we hold sacred or dear
so now back to the show
of hands, cards on table forth plot devised
latent to manifest entanglements
we are now, later in the poem
we are viral possibilities, pleas pleased
so we read our lines and read again, words begin begging-ly
leading action to melt into the architecture of nothing
set and setting is
no vantage gained
without pain, we say silently
this is always true
perspectives gleaned
riding mostly amidst womb chaos
are forays that can relay joy
but we acknowledge
they can be so sharp
they're not felt
as entrance wounds and just their exits
are what we frame
the moving pictures
of you, me
fill little theaters
fingers spun dials
barker harking
almost county fair time
crackling frequencies
like an old radio
we occasionally
would listen to
while white noise
watching, hoppers
in the tall grass
late summer
on the rise
EJR ©
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