Unconscious spigot,
Maintenance repair
Unplanned venture
I threw that wrench around somewhere
Unholy sighs,
Of which is repeated as sublime
Nature, that points in directions
Wherever the wind blows, I guess
Circumvent Spent
Edit-on etched
Somewhere I left in my phone
Notifications synced
Emails deplete
And I tidy my room once more
Incense burns
And so does the green fern
It grows,
Because there’s a stream abound,
Near my house,
And that’s where my cat goes strolling,
Meerkats would be cooler,
I put in a stool chair
Near my desk so I have paper to vent
The lantern candle could fall
So I push the stool to stall
No need to cause fires
I don’t know how to put out
Thankfully.
This doesn’t happen too often.
Lighter in nature,
Higher than craters,
My eyes gotta squint a little too hard to see
The rabbit on the moon.
My eyedrops,
Egads,
They seem to lack
The fluids necessary to rejuvenate
My aging chameleon-wandering eyes.
Probably noticed I’m skipping lines.
Askew to view
Of the leg-up
That sewn
A season and a half
Of confusion.
I look back at my entries
And categories too,
There’s a cloud of a view,
As dismal,
As the bark of the dog,
Agitated.
Outside my window(s).
Tabs for tales,
Sleeker than tails,
Of my macrame curtains I found [made].
I fasten the pace.
I know who wins this race.
I just didn’t know when or how
I got entered.
Fugue what you will,
Fevers ache and dispel,
So I am parked in my chair,
Legs up, so I fail
To fall
As a clumsy klutz
At an exponential angle
With a ray of light poking from the side
Revealing my disgrace,
My hiccups, this case
Seems to have been going around
For awhile
I wish for flat
Pancakes
Earthquakes that race
And Gaia may smile
But she frowns.
Heyday okay,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Dismay,
As this thought is not original;
But I used it anyway(s).
Somewhere travels to in my mind,
And I find it all sublime sublime sublime
As the tree taught me how to do
Perhaps bamboo that grows in shaded desserts,
Is the true case
Of this
Seemingly
Excess of sugar cane.
I prefer saccharine
And starry-prys
Zero sugar
Creamer for coffee
I spit out
And as I found
There is no soup
Or room on this plate of
Fudge
On the table.
So make my bed instead
The dryer loads with dread
Can’t go back to bed
Missing hours away
Desk Works attunes to stay
More of a back-thought
Than the other things
I type.
So instead,
Fears locked in to be fed –
-by wasting your time.
Poetry time, is over.
petrichor - archive 