Friday, April 8, 2011

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


She says she wants to talk "in the worst way." Government brinks on shut-
down. In a minute, honey. Craft, shape, lift, rift. Loquacious undertones pinned
to the stratosphere un-hemp the whistle blown to gather bucks. Are you still
stuck in winces? My only hesitation is for planetary underage drunk bluster
to be stung free of cha. The lackeys in the alleys have arrived fresh from
the armistice. My generation lacks a generator. My generosity parts with stern repose.
She takes my temperature, and it is less than an agreed-upon refusal. Visceral endearments
pored across like depth. Unnecessary slough-ness south of wherewithal. One notices.
One glows mid-depth in darker poses. Every wrath of our directness staffs the place.
To overplay our handsome. We impair the froth. We snake through overt playthings.
Via noticeable dampness. Via sparks. Reverting to the sun. If you were I would you.
So when we talk, coordinating conjunctivitis storms out of the room. The bloom
in rooms of depth mis-torques the wave pool. Are you conscious? Are you stoic?
Are you broth? Caloric inference recedes into a decadence.

Mistaken inference, petition-able prayer, a modest cuff, some sway

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