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.