Crooked
It was as good as anything.
I was a little disappointed,
It’s entirely believable to believe this
Hear the sound of the vase.
She wore a gray suit and would say,
“Flowered dress around productive routine,”
Then it was okay. She smiled and you respected it.
She’s my affair with that bubble,
A finely shaped skull. Very common.
What happened to that white cushioned room
and the parsley under the knotted-up lap?
Disappeared. High forehead. Slight body recession.
Jeans, pointy—
She dressed like a small nose.
“No, no, I—”
The tape recorder wrote mainly from side to side
Wide gray eyes, glasses that sat.
“But you seem like tea?”
God, this is a slice of pastry. Same with poetry.
Tree or two. More often their cutlet and the cut—
A pocket in what I meant. What I know, it’s fact.
“Let me explain: noon the machines.”
She hardly feels the hallway.
Then the stanzas.
I sat crookedly on her,
I modeled floating in it Clusters of tiny cranes and bulldozers
Nothing happens in the tele—
Quiet and a moment
Who do you think you know?
Dumb fucks. I, Iowa, so
Poets paint nudes
Handsome women grinding down below
So here I am, muffled by umm
Cleaner than shit-black soil, treated like a couch
And spread sexually. Change here? Yes. Way to be real assholes.
She was molested as himself, thinking about his third wife now.
Smoking gives him red shoes and words, “Girl World.”
Boardinghouse carrying a small rock’s ass.
I publish what I can.
My first meeting the generous expanse.
“Not now,” she said, gazing out. Read the words.
Become contemptuous.
Can I myself? Which is a lot.
An indecipherable picture, pause—
AKR
