first off, a minimalist pome:
"don't let it end like this. tell them i said something."
--last words of pancho villa
i sd, get the fuck off my lawn.
she ran into a grand piano
and we saw her narrating –––– material intrigue...
(how we admired (her))
...little museums disrupting at the drama
our dearest penelope!
are you obsessed w/ madeira embroidery, penelope?
transfixion'd w/ the transendence of the toy chest?
finding ministry in old texts
& singular bibliographies
i haven't read them
if this all seems to be for crisis theology
there has to be something else to this milieu
into the wildflowers
gathering wilderness ––– liaisoning
w/ exequies, newspapers
triskelia'd in gasoline blooms of em dashes –––
there's plenty of retrospection
wiring grievances, nonsymmetrical & vice versa
to the curious-leaf mosaic
the historiography of coming to terms
through sheet music
and yesterday's figures
begrudge! bespeak! penelope!!!
outré anaphora, a hymn to stairwells
the debris of hushed, poignant
innocence, romanticism; seldom (if descriptive)
it was a seamless seduction
not just a black tea
then the narration detours rather violently:
train rides & nude beaches;
compassion / reflection, creaking windows
on the wherethrough of
w/ a Leica 35mm in reference to sightings;
abruptly, in February,
the worn red carpet in the living room
elsewhere, the quiet moments
by the dreary precision of rec-
brushwork & preliminary copy editing
sláinte, until the other week(end)