There’s a bounty-less moment in every breath I take.
Dismal in every sight of respect.
And I whisper in the winds and recollect
Of the breeze of gardenias in the fresh gust
Of the slit of the k-notched and tied and tasseled curtain.
Layered in every stroke, like a resemblance of erudite.

Apocalyptic Zine Fiend.
Old Flagpole Sitas and it seems
Pita is all I can give for an itch in lands elsewhere
Lost in every night and every inhale and every breath.
Confused in my own director’s monologue as to what to say so I don’t say
Anything else at all.
Not in a bad way.
I’ve grown comfortable again and every wretch is this slight
Glitch?
When I glimpse in moments at all the lives I’ve lived enamored
Numerated into just-one.
And I don’t know what to do with it.

Hint hint hint,
You’re basking inafterglow but already
Forgot what the accomplishment was.
Poignant figurehead of stature,
Oh, how your statehood beguiles me.
And into every weary wreck I nosh a little more crevice into this detail.
It had been so quiet.
7 years and it seems the boss hadn’t really said anything.
U See Me.
Interesting.
You’ve noticed, I’ve noticed too.
Humble Crowd for a Young Adult Gal.
Fortuitous in the lames of old and old
Sounds and old times and
Old recipes
And ways of knowledge.
How did you know that?
Walking Encyclopedias and every locked door led to a
Laptop, when I was growing up.
Everyone has what we had to keep secret for so long.
Antebellum Cellphone.
Works different in a coconut grove and I don’t know how crossed-ties
Are we going to make of this macrame curtain of self-doubt, pestilence,
And just sitting
Around.

Just around.
Just chilling.
Chilling on ice.
And freezer departments.
God, I haven’t had a break in my mind for awhile.
Puzzles for the non-verbal and solitaire is bullshitting me again.
Every sign instead of someone else’s hand-written horoscopes.
And I venture and tither.
More synchronicity, on the way.

We don’t talk much about the problems anymore.
We don’t have much problems with each other…
I suppose, we’re left in jurisdiction to say –
It’s supposed to be too busy to be bored.
And I will monger on in my linger.
Sweet like Monkfruit.