Day One: ‘Corduroy Days’

April 1, 2013

I live as a fake monk,

stretching days as taffy and nights as film cels.

Blending plans with pure sabotage,

feasting upon the threat of possibility,

I prowl in black hallways and devour

the pale pastels of mass transit.

 

 

Escape autonomous like an inward balloon

rising inside the self. A bleached bouquet

of velvet na-nas from ’60s pop, and

the sleek joys of new friendship, dark as pu’erh.

Some phrases sound gorgeous — others are flat

notes in a sagging scale of cacophony.

 

 

When sparkling myrtle at last deposits in my eyes

and I take up home where I can see the stars,

there will be peace and victory. The greens

will be pure earth. The windows waxed.

Until, the moon remains a cracked promise,

and harmony lingers just out of key.

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