Organizing thoughts and T-shirts, possibly writing a poem

 

    

 Give it a reference.

Could be a year,

an era,

equidistant blocks of eons

from the future,

the first day of school,

the first time.

 

Put it in place, specifically.

A room, a town,

at sea,

drifting in desert circles,

frozen in pure speculation,

in the back seat.

 

Relate it to the senses.

It tastes like chicken.

Touch as textured energy,

dripping you everywhere.

Sounds as contortion,

a catatonic in silent fog,

pain in geometric shapes.

The best car smelled like you.

 

Intuit, interpret.

Weather is arbitrary.

The sun inside you.

Kites once touched,

fall to earth,

cease to be kites.

You entered the room

like a knife.

Left the route to the

judgment of the horse.

There is no God except matter.

Driving through all

yellow lights lately.

 

Give it a twist.

Vitreous,

then all beyond.

God is a trickster,

eternally fooling himself.

Monkeys deliberately

don’t speak to avoid work.

She wants someone to talk to her

and is afraid I might commit

that indiscretion.

Suppose all troops

just came home.

Give me all your chocolate….

and nobody gets hurt.

 

Call Beth on her cell.

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