Hero and Leander

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.

This time, another one-and-only, I do.
Start with vernal dockings and transplant
vegetation, fierce jelly-bricked rocks.
Dunderheadly, I wake constipated night,
aslant from the stocking of anothers dream.
Sleep-thick nights of painless codification;
perusable laws circumscribed to corner labs,
patched from Steinway or Low Corp, etc.
Hollering, I hang my comb and rule-brush
like a filigree atop an immaculate settee.
Nifty critters wing about my larded brains,
asking but for a quiet misogyny at dusk
as female dandelions unfurl faded visors.
Whispered rudiments and soft consortiums
recollect the broad days ovine boundaries:
its creeping lurch a sanitary who-done-it,
the nervy commission of leather-wearers.
My properties themselves, one edamame
at a time, digitalize sails of burnt memes,
postured clippings swept across the noon.
Soapy contrabands born. Ol Narcolepsy
goes second-cousin to wishy-washy debris.
Tubers droop in slooped caskets. TVs set.
Lamps shrug. Sheets luckily unravel like
a snails tuckus recumbent on giddy pearl.
I crochet napkin prescriptions, await mail,
a worried warrior of ancient mythic sleep

chasm-deep in novacane-induced reveries.

Posterity phones. Conniption-fits are had.
Plums from next door remind why we avoid
our neighbors because in haughtiest regard
we see so little of ourselves anymore to know
we were wack. We were the first flawed place.
Chubby nail-biters and wet blankets go forth.
Geodesic radios switch and prepare stop-gaps,
start tirade-sweet static, a conspicuous hymn
of vanitys finer stuff, dull-linened chastity,
while we worm from a heirloom headboard.
Others repeat less dimensional bias beliefs.
Stepmothers have been rumored in the interior.
Van Dyke and Van Schmuck hop on the truck,
and Im like them, stalwart as fog, a moccasin
swart like thorned attorney, festooning gaily.
What would an aesthetic be, pornographically?
Or forgetting the allegory of analogy, jerked
up from your copy of Hero and Leander, you
see in a buried remark a family resemblance.
Either way, I flush and bring up another image
from my Ferris wheel. Weeds conceal yet have
a romantic, renovative spirit. Stone-smoothening,
they bandage new wounds. They emit no names.

Elegaic Rat-a-tat-tat
I have really no idea why Im so good at losing people.
Maybe its my kaleidoscopic sense theyve already left
even when they havent. Like you, here in the dust-up,
saddle make-up, eyeing crematory atmospherics that
gentle others install at or for the lovely exhibition.
I cant quite say what I would say, or wouldnt
right now. A moon, drowsy and isotopic, picks
from its cotton-mouth bland, sluggish number.
It says, without recharging, your times up.
Another sweet stir to fatten heralding leaves.
Still, you challenge me with alien logic to name
something inviolable, or violent. Either way,
it has to have consequence in material chunks.
Or you could forget it and go curve like the jug
handles of a fruit-colored carrying case. Opened
up, a tenor cornet is playing akimbo silhouette.

Home Movie
Even so, jambalaya, you best be on the
Way back to a nifty drumming of what
Really concerns you, who will soak up
The remaining branches that configure
Your violent place in shifting, sifting,
Druggist elegies, hapless elders tossed
Like a flinching keystroke in the wrong
Room of letters, the spammed erection
Of the heart, other meaty edibles, period
Pieces youll be reading years from now
With a tempered jauntiness, if for no
Other reason than the resolution lists
A capsized televised object endlessly
Like a rhapsody without techie hump.
Come with me in the stony effacement
Thats just speaking with ordinary vales
Complexioned to closest relative hour,
Cheated by fleet dispersal of clenched
Amorative belongingship. I release you
Or I release the next item of attention
Could be interchangeable objectives fit
For nostalgia of the king. Meanwhile
The king listens, but does not govern.
And defeatism is quickly letting go.