Sunday, June 3, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Lapel pins rinsed in blood form abstract playthings on the creased part of an overlay. His arms in bronze are generally capable. Now and early go distinctions between tongue and tungsten. He reads matter-of-frack questions from a clipboard. One of us will pay the gent in polyester for the right to stand beneath these awnings stretched a gel green. We stay put, practicing arpeggios the way that mother used to fake. I talk to studio audiences like you. I tell my history, and listen for skeptical minds to overflow with cryptic jabs. Stick figures puncture when we're noticing other flings. And now you may observe a flicker of our jaundiced pace, when we feign special intentions as if unisonly sprung from shared footage on these pavement squares. An officer in navy starts to point out sins, for which I answer via 
gratitude by wearing white. I tell my grace notes of your grace's face fall when the usual exterior goes spliced. Now ticket-free, my record holds a place along the leaf-lined rite
of passage.

Donations to the library, countess with a whisper of a name, a fresh hue to the upstart

Sheila E. Murphy

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