Who the ****, and why.
The owner of the eye
Can answer my question,
Whoever it is that's watching;
Stop wasting your time

This kindness?
I don't trust it
Like a purple sky
Before a storm
Beautiful; but
Do you realize
The birds are
Agitated and
The ants are
Marching in circles?

My gal's got a way of talkin' so sweetly
Of talkin' so sweetly to me
It brings me the mornin' to hear her
Voice sweetly
To hear her
Kind words just for me

She talks of forever and ever just with me
She talks like she's writin' a poem
She talks like a liar
Eyes glint like a tiger
I see it,
And know that I'm *****

My gal's got me wrapped all up on her finger
Caught up in her hair
Curls like irons.
But me I don't worry
That she'd ever harm me
I'm just as disarming
As she

I know by the taste of her tongue
It is silver
I know cause it matches my own
And though we both talk of such aery ideas
When we are together I'm home

It felt like a trick
But there was no evidence
Just a feeling

I guess I always expect the worst
Or maybe I’m blind

Sketchy.

Suspicious?

No
of course
not!

Sketchy!

Pencil?

Of course
I start
with pencil!

Sketchy.

What?

I'll sketch
a person,
of course.

Sketchy.

Hm.

It's a
person
on the run.

Sketchy indeed.
Suspicious enough.

The President closed the post in Vologda.
There's one phone in the whole city.
On the big doors of the clinic
Boards are stuck in the fifties.

From the open windows of the hotel
The birthday girl screams.
In the shops near the station
Run by the Turks with the Vietnamese.

The traffic light hasn't worked for a while.
On him gloves clap.
Passing horse and cart.
The machine gun is under the birch.

Whether festive, or everyday,
I made my way between them.
Antifreeze, tangerine
The lantern was green and crimson.

Arrested.
A Windsor knot
binds my
fickle neck
to my dour
shoulders.
Plastic ties
elegant wrists
in pair.

One question:
Head up or down?

I lied.

Another question.
Atop a question.

Am I

headed up or down?
Give me redemption
or else,
how can I ignore it?

One bedroom.
An eager clock,
minutes
from my set,
or expected
The End,
happily
leaves me to my
routine.

One question:
Head up or down?

I lied.

Another question.
Atop a question.

Am I

headed up or down?
Give me freedom
or else,
how can I ignore it?

Can I really be who I want?
Can I really be what I mean?

Will I ever solidify?
Will I ever come to?

And who will come?

(. . .)