Inside the must-continue, stuck
poem of my life, how are you?
Fuzzy pop-pop boy and
curly Goldstein on the rare
barroom’s main floor, wrangling
bound foundations by the
portal’s broken door; yellow cast
snapping erasers, tricked out
accounting parallel, greased-up water
on trapped paper chasers,
guts and charms—soiled to spoiled,
backs of broke necks aimed screen-down
to dis-connect, postcards from the
ravage and wrecked, collecting
some this: akin to dust.
Romanticism, Atheism, Logicism, Abject-
ivism; a depth of intellect constrained the
managerial family speaking from a television.
Elderberry, Cherry, floats dwell in a barrel,
settling down on Northern Bowery tilting
with consonant and vowel. The brush
position flawed, ‘ink must be smooth,
ink must be black’, where to find a surplus
of mirror-glass, refracting lack. ‘The
approach still not in order, cutting will
be superficial’, slices up his right
front shoe forms the shape of her initial.