no gothic swim

no gothic swim
team
could have scene
the variable rait
echo screep
into nine sense
centing a room
for a swarry
of castable
tea pots
sending
a
into
ice
like an ace
of credible
beef laying.

i, typing of sound mind
to send the spell check
intwo a tiff with
the ship
of a lipschtick
corn hiss.

i, seeking nowear
as an antidote
to my
anecdotal
fission
of misery
into mi s
er,
why?

and i, screening
calls for no reason
but to lay them
out upon a gentle
breeze of a fall
evening, will dash
sentences upon
the rock and only
leave phrases in
the lucky, offbeat
chance that i will
not be taken seriously
and can avoid all
hope of being a hopeful.

this tiff in
the blackest of outfits
bedecked like a mortal
in melodramatic fonts
will weather only
reading by canteen
not candle to
dandy out
the skidding
brilliance and
shape the fur more
like a bad painting
whose best grant
would have been irony
but is more likely
to be
lost in
a dump.

one large internet cradling
us aloft afar in silence
like a donut at the
top of a seventy foot black
walnut tree.

only squirrels can find it
but squirrels won’t read it
they’ll cram it and go
ballistic down the road
to the next shiny
beekeeper.

you can buzz
and
i can saw
and with a fish
we’ll careen
like a physics equation
only good for academic pursuit
but lost on phonics
and hooked on smooth skin.

a mountain of consumption
to accompany you on every sad day
instead of exploding
onto a scene
your guts
changing
our hearts.

how about the art of
making them smile
instead of the delight
of making you cry?

we are so selfish
we dress up for us.

and the goggles
the goggles
the goggles
keep my make up
from smearing until later.

we want to be taken seriously
after all.

today.

tomorrow.

what may look like a phase of
the moon is really just the moon
stroke after stroke
breath after breath
swim lanes of tears
laughs
cheers
trophies
and herering.
m.