Good days come in groups of three
The other four, I rather not score
One is quiet, just sits and stares
Another is botched and filled with fear
One is stocked with a flash that stays
The last is mocked by insecure fame
I love men when they come
They grip and groan, then they're done
-L. Zufosky (A-12)
Loosen referance points
Dashed-off, taken from water
To the hills and the caves
To march away from the muffled
Affording little sense to be mired in the old breeze, stolen marshes
Yet to name familiar crossroads, first cars,
smacks of a most remarkable gaze:
Aside of the tongue, same menthol taste, same fitted jeans.
A matter of issues,
"When is it too late?"
When is the soul's juggernaut finished-
Culled from the exterior from respondents
Flattened by tugs
Buried in boxes of unseen origins
"That'll teach 'em to fire their guns in San Francisco!"
Some will only comply
Language will rarely suffice
There are few welders left
And they have all gone to the hills
"I think I am caught in an old regional expression . . .
"Poetry is the opposite of recovered memory"
Which humans possess the furtive sense
to wave orchids against such glum renewals?
Mood is not an issue, but a symptom of spirit.
Can we morally assess our discordance with constructive
aggression to combat self-distractions?
Where is Drama?
All is Vanity!
All is Foie Gras!
All is Grabbable!
A sort of cheat police,