~
I see starfish from
my false bottom
canoe
stretching the wave,
a shimmer to the sound
—slow, fast, wide, and narrow,
then gray over blue
in the empty mirth.
I see trouble and strife,
a beacon of
decadence,
trembling consistently
on each note as if
she had the permanent fever.
I see death and transfiguration,
(equal bedfellows),
out of the ground
as glorious
wisteria,
there's ether on hand
and a lot of bridge work
to cross the vocal span of our
vibrato wars.
I've only got time
for the business at hand,
these cobwebs in the corner
(of history) can linger,
or die like
flies
on the Queen of Compromise,
who never was,
who might have been,
who will always be.
am I cantillating
or have I ventured into
false memory syndrome
again?
~
