Silver Highlight

Inside the must-continue, stuck poem of my
life, how are you? Fuzzy pop-pop boy and

curly Goldstein on the rare barroom’s main
floor, wrangling bound foundations by the

portal’s broken door, yellow cast snapping
erasers, tricked out accounting parallel and

greased-up water on trapped paper chasers,
guts and charms—soiled to spoiled, backs

of broke necks aimed screen-down (to dis-
connect), postcards from the ravage and

wrecked, collecting something akin to dust.

Hermeticism, Acmeism, Imagism, Object-
ivism; and a depth of intellect constrained

the writerly family speaking to a television.
Elderberry, Cherry, floats dwell in a barrel,

settling down on Northern Bowery tilting
with consonant, with vowel. The brush

position is flawed, ‘ink should be smooth, ink
must be black’, there to find a surplus of

mirror-glass, refracting lack. ‘The approach
is not in order, cutting will be superficial’, he

slices open his right front shoe forming the
shape of her initial.

Prognosticating Poem For Bob Dylan, Beacon Theatre, New Yok City

A week—today—
I quit my lowdown
ways,
and me my sundown
to smear. (on)

A week—today—
Isis knocks my
way,
and me my skin
to wear. (out)

A week—today—
Queen Jane’s approximate
way,
and me my call
to clear. (out)

A week—today—
Ramona swells
her way,
and me my Deuteronomy
to bear. (out)

A week—today—
Bob slips
his stay,
and me my drove
to hare. (out)

Marching

Eighteen days these little

poems music selections comprise

to fail to comprise

maybe when if and only if ever:

the bare infinitive a

refined embrace