charity event in napa at a winery with subpar merlot, which is unfortunate
for anthony vieira
incidentally
time, as a specious preoccupation
some-time p.m.
like, "i have a real nice lawn, it's meticulous"
and the only "paper of record"
is the paper
i've decided to currently use to induce,
sincerely seduce,
a pre-war chanteuse drinking green chartreuse
w/ feverish carnations
flourishing to the gloom of flamenco music—
how arrogant
like, one summer evening
in late-winter
the odd & the mundane, literatured—
connotatively fraught
as a modern-art museum, as a charity event...
tonight, book-lined
the freeway a manual transmission
outside my window
past the lawn, the valley bisected, or
dissected—
i forget which, but it's kind of plurale tantum outside
w/ doldrums, salad days...
i've favoured
the firewood on fire is merely a fallen
sun, coughing
-up tawdry hues of yellows—
the hierarchy
of coming to terms w/ such laconic
criticism...
b/c there's something particularly intriguing
in these vacant thoughts—
second thoughts
like courtney's often been the recipient
of a glasgow grin...
i'm thinking: "fuck yeah, benefit galas!," two solitudes
or x's & o's,
"all of my girlfriend's ex-boyfriends' love letters..."
but sometimes i have to remember
that's another story
is really just another story, elaborate & more lurid—
elegant, or humdrum
the -self behind this late-evening absurdity
in a trajectory of violets
in “triage,” in the deconstruction of charity, & finally
valhalla, seemingly
forgetting all of the conceits that implicated
the story arc further
through well-placed sprinklers, and tired wine
repaired & modified, a requiem
inward, a stop sign
kaiser foundation hospital, poor cassie
barraged, swathed
kite trigger telephone book perfume
some saxophone, barnstorming
my lung, inculpated
through its reed, nonetheless
the threat...
delight, imagine sanctuary
it's tempting, the punctured, inhospitable
denouement, bandaged
w/ increasingly harsh, novel
bouquets, wreaths
startling if accurately autobiographical
the traditional blur
of her
& i, sieved
in white, turbulent against
the controlled
ardour of colouring books whisky, & february
of reconciliation...
disease, a cascading experiment
an absolute
the last time i let you sulk into the evening
dearest cassie benign
discontinued
the december of our denouement, housed
start stop, rewind
paper parentheses
& elaborate metaphor stab wounds
sometimes lovers
are vignettes & rebroadcast sitcoms from the 80s
wednesday afternoons
lovesick & elegant w/ construction
paper apotheosis
the barren tree branches, couched in fog;
constant, elusive
yachting for concrete subject matter—
in stead,
offbeat & jazzed w/ abstract confessionals:
blood spatter, or the solace
of memory...
sometimes a heart is a ludwig dresden timpani
constructing a palm tree
of nightingales of bespoke apothecaries—
now and then
symbolism at the bleeding edge of lassitude,
exemplified...
wir haben es nicht gewusst—
however, eventually one comes to the foci:
the ocean in january
hushed against the hum of hospital doors...
golf cleats near a fallen tree by the aircraft carrier on the back nine
creek marigolds, sunday afternoon
the house, shrouded
blossoms blanched, italicized / tree branches
yesterday's forest
-ing shears — february, ferrotyped
a chandelier
an ampoule of chartreuse, and
another, and how / the blustery evening—
quiet light
is the conflagration of a congregation
a $1,296 pen pal
proffering, première danseuse / surprisingly
a minimal -ist fashion; (pink
elephant cuff
-links) / & golf cleats cossack dancing
on shag carpet
designed, in incongruity; as ugly ducks
press daffodils
b/c what they really want is a nice, coherent
emotionally-direct narrative
wherewithal (for lauren)
our sleepless silhouettes, engineered
wire, in the pink--
the circulatory system of ghosts;
afterall, anyone,
a clientele of butterflies,
tumbling,
cascading the window's waltz--
afterall, no?,
the curtains linger, egrets out of the radiator,
lullabies of arson & rainwater
causally
hymns & glamour, embroidered
the wherewithal
of perspective, i mean, sometimes
the pleasantries
shrouded in the arch of scotch, or preterition
inadvertently
the things i wasn't able to tell you
before sleep
as ever, let trigonometry lend syllables to the nuance of yr evening
--jstn
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