People walk with umbrellas
and slow their pace when storefronts blink.
Lines of plastic adapters,
silver welds of rings or chains.
Unexpected rebuttals, instant heartbreak.
The crackle of your mouth against the speaker
a dark season, fed little pills.
Less automation in barren anomalies.
Etiquette goes quick.
There are times when other people want more.
Real estate arranged in hollow bones
Each cage equipped with small passages,
Engines steered safely under ledges,
a false start pushed out in secrecy
Who knows from where you are being watched,
what cache yields what result.
Drawing closed, drawers
and other things with latches.
Hands as pleasure, nodes of the quarry.
Radio frequencies positioned in lulls,
in the red room where you sleep.
At night I know you are one room over,
my bed positioned by the door.
The stable pride of things called home:
despondent handiwork and paper craft,
a sudden drawing to musty smells.
We hammer incongruencies,
hangers hang nakedly.
We are herding things,
emissaries enjoying their own friction.
Good homes, help and other extremities
recollected in hues, slightly procuring another.
We hire a hero:
The shrugging belt rolls under,
displays recovered packaging.
Bars of soap saddled up with cucumbers,
I like finding what I can and sticking it to the walls.
A pristine motivation,
likely rebuffs between beach-side and boulevard
Hearsay delineated under a summer sun.
I am putting the cup to the lip;
there is electing to be done,
idiosyncrasies to disdain.
Pleased when niceties sit in piles,
and cups go behind cabinet doors.
Towering worthy passage,
thin aristocracies sitting between stops.
Observed from the lawn in skeined ambivalence,
greetings from the way experience returns.
Antibodies of urbane youth and delicacy like dungeons.
No end to the length we are willing to wait.
Vespers recited, acknowledging the day.
Traded fisticuffs for clothes.
Led to rooms with nothing but beds,
each post resembling hands.
Turning back the sheets,
sleeping in what appears to be rest.
I don’t know what it means to be living
in these little rooms, parsing-out working motors.
My first non-poetry post.
It’s worth it though.
Ryan Adams – Wonderwall (Oasis cover)
& forced facets,
an object’s enclosed
animosity for all
which peers in.
Eyes always open
or about to be,
for protection in a place
that never changes.
forth in uniformity–
mouths always open
or about to be,
of the dark. Algorithms
skirted in green
& trimmed in anagrams.
The formation of the room
makes sense from the door.