Sliver 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

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; 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 forms the
shape of her initial.