The Waiting

Rosary

Rosary Twilight thicket, ye arms are a badass melody marking this quicksilver pleasure, wrapped in the waves of a sea. I think it screams. But sultry, to be honest. Not another blink of the eye. Prehistoric matter in its posh place up the hill yonder. I confuse with the best of them my horse’s mane, my man coming home with a golden briefcase. * Yesterday stolen postcards erupted from the chimney and I boxed the ashes. My insides are wicked with war but the kites keep the sky up. Flame in the lateral position, back of my sweaty knee, won’t you please cancel the subscriptions. My trip of the fat land is successful thus far. Blood scurries the veins. Stays put. * There is a small fortune in my mouth some of the time, laughing. The words popped out I wasn’t thinking so metaphorically speaking. That ’ole toothy badger. That grass skirt so fit for a stage of flowers. Truly a great mystery getting all the more mysterious, I could be the assembly line dust coating my luscious locks. But not so dramatic. Truth: the sea’s limited [ 27 movement, each swirl and heave in the back and forth, never self-conscious never sick of itself. * Leaves falling and afterwards one could imagine the tree a little sad. I pull out some glue, fuse my indifference with my indifference. They fit nicely together, stored in a hatbox, the land thick with graves on a hill so snowy the graves are disappearing. I look in a mirror. Overly in love we decide not to speak. Call me squawker. I have mulch and a matching cage. * I ready for departure, frost at the peephole, hum at the tongue. The food is what you would call homemade. Can’t you smell the plastic table decorated just so? I use the silverware to hold my hair in place. My master doth keep the wind pocketed, the sharp sun cold. I go by taxi by train by plane by sex in a dirty bathroom. Sorry, I forgot your name, the bench is cold today. * Digging the backyard birds up, bones small as sugar, grains scattering the ground. A seize of melancholy last time the plains flooded, my belongings caught in the current. But I was a lust machine back in my Scorpio days. Now I’m a Gemini and sit quietly with my 28 ] slippered feet on the rug. It’s the wooded life. There — the town drunk is ripping his shirt. There — the postman dons new galoshes and so on and so. * And the lilacs across the pool table come into view, a decision to water the indifference so it grows at a steady pace. A most Hare Krishna day to you. I was lounging til time did bring me back. All the pleasantries erupted from your face and your feet couldn’t keep the sidewalk parallel. Like a dusty bedside book. Like the atom particle you saw minus magnifying glass. * When I arrive the song asks to be let out. Fortunate beloved with crusty lip caught in the milk bottle. Just the other day I gave in good, divided the pieces of sunset into a little fairy tale. You look nice wearing the moon in your hair, sparkle sparkle shine, I want to let go. Sometimes I weave for the fun. Sometimes I hum and then I don’t. [ 29 ...