The juxtaposition of socks,
one left behind
one pressed to the foot,
the behind pressing foot
to the couch
tucked under,
waiting in the other room.

The warranty of ceiling tiles
hung by some unseen hanger
stranger by another life
directed by another's wife,
what keeps them up?

The worthiness of earthiness
in humor by design
to hide the urban streets caress
of street tone in the rhyme
in-poser aiery-er.

Is it worth mentioning the blues?

The stickiness of after-sex construes
an awkward stalking, stomping friendliness
that will not last. A car key cures that fact.

Peanut butter Blues,
down to meet my shoes,
heel to eye.

Drivers chewing gum
or singing,
one can't discern
or learn the words without lip reading,
or communing with commuting
with regularity.

One first yearns, then learns
of showfull words,
when strewn,
were better scattered underneath
a bed, than said or written down
and passed around to poets, writers, thieves
and other sordid types of alter-characters,
some quite-a-few as snowflakes

I saw a fool the other day,
And didn't mention it to him,
was feeling charitable,
my own army of salvation,
minus the tambourine.

Circulation is a circuitous thing,
when interrupted,
it's generally by edges
or cords
or other things clenched,
twisted or corrupted,
and general interrupted
state-of-ness,
and less relaxed.

I'd write a song
but notes keep
floating by sans melody,
a parody of writership
and record-played-arrayed
displayed-dismay of
tuneless-ship.

Remember to flush.

09/10/2008

Posted on 09/11/2008
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers