PROOF READING
It's easy to imagine
those riddled moment
immersed in words
with a red eye
collapsed ear drum
or clasped fingers
in my solitude task
at the bottom of night
drawing a blank
on snowy spaces
through pools
of white out,
trying to retouch
my original intention
tumbling down
from piles of papers
occasionally falling
on my overcast flesh
with a sore nape of neck
and butchered knees
rounding a computer
orbit of words
crossing my notes
with the spacey sound
of antonyms and verbs
waiting to be scanned
and read into existence
on a gag of lip
hungering for
punctured apostrophes
from burning language
in my gnarled mouth
of lemon lozenges
catching eyelashes
from wrangled notes
with a twinned patch
of tiny adjectives,
imprinted commas
snagged in arrangement
on a doubtful page
of vagabond labor.
WHO IS THIS MATE
You close the lights
take away the phone
stop the radio news
ignore all soccer games
refuse to water the plants
or grow a beard
take out the dog
deflate any ego
nor inspect any proofs
just clear away all love letters
in a puncture of past wounds,
confound the unknown,
expect to relax
or have your back
to anyone else,
not antagonize your ex
with any whirling ideas
of sweet revenge
or sour recantations
by staring
at the torn envelopes
over the canine's filthy rug,
nor wash the wishes
full of strawberry sauce
and massacred walnuts,
nor shower with a fresh
feel or sensation
nor whistle its commercial song
in the soapy ad,
now drop your weights
and laugh at the past
with a walled in loneliness,
and look with full smile
in the chasm
of your broken mirror,
just grin at your future
embracing a new
chilled out morning
handwriting words to myself.
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