having dealt meditational

applications of paint to the  

foregoing walls of a bedroom.

a more youthy white cracked

open over aging eggshell.

all the same, as if uniformly

sheen.

try as it may, a paint roller leaves

a frumpy stripe from corner to

ceiling.

begging for brushwork.

it's an intimate little chat with

striving perfectibility.

Shakespeare sowed his

mouth shut, no mirror--

just thread and needle.

blood worming out of

every stitch.

the fuckery of: very well--

indeed.

peasants piled thick at:

The Rose Theatre.

moved by the comeuppance

of healed lips.

an orangey-red plastic toy
tugboat, the size of an eight
yr. old's palm--is pulled out
to sea.
painting by number via ripple,
glowing like a stubborn ember.
it briefly idled in your standard
size sand bucket--bearing the
likeness of a ripe watermelon's
skin, streaks & all.
cemented by wet sand, to
its rim--sand ***** writhing
as they did with dinosaurs.
sort of like Ronzoni shells
copping a dance.

a brook lends the

smoke of:

Patchouli.

a sparrow soaks

like a piece of

bread.

irresponsive to

water.

it may be remiss to state

time to plaid blue sheets

of sky.

especially when unasked.

while leaves hovel over

patchwork.