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colloquialisms don’t go over well
talk to you later and the forlorn all
sit on a stoop waiting for their non-
emergent mothers in station wagons
devouring time like an overripe plum
forced to stagnate until at least eleven
not even clear on adulthood and the ensuing
responsibility of a bike ride around Oregon

maybe a phone call since we’re heading for an
even denser clod this year but nothing so convenient
as proximity can ease the mad clatter of obsession
that mars the night sky with it’s endless refrain look
look look and into the dark we stare willingly as if
some brightness would catch hold to startle us out of
this chosen fugue state and a tight clique of stars
shelters a big surprise none of us believe in anymore

hesitancy about honesty inhibits necessary motion
a flicker of rose candle in the childhood corner proposes
faith that baneful endings can have a toxic effect which
would wreck the vision of a real balcony scene replete with
ripe kiwi and silk garments something akin to forever but
without the emphasis on death or even passion as these are
remnants of someone else’s nightmare and not the true colors
deemed relevant if pursuit and soft skin can tolerate so long

it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete

my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk

it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge