from THE TWELVE || Sheila E. Murphy

Samurai

[1] Tea in a mug shot, perfidy, “that beautiful gold,” a cast-iron nominative cast-off, tear-fed maybe, Sominex to sleep (and sleep), “safe and restful . . .”
[2] Amassive wall flower, curvy petals, indrawn destinations, breath heater on the floor (plan), nest-like lawn and trembling.
[3] She with nerve (gas in the kitchen) kitsch completes the window “wealth itself” anchors all of our colors on the cheap.
[4] Scaffolding (“I used to operate”), no, I mean a forklift, life after forks, craft fairs galore, spilling into the streets, people to watch, people to document, people to for(get) . . .
[5] He telephones the narcissist to ask how much should be contributed to the hope chest, and the narcissist answers, “Go ask God; I’m busy.”
[6] Fatherhood inflicted on the masses ensures follow-through, as if a flicker of summation might nudge a collective noun into fruition brought in retrospect.
[7] Naysayers christened in rose-colored light will occupy the glass jar for another century, while neutral beings watch, take notes, discourage youth from emulating this and that.
[8] Rooibos rose enhances the room’s confluent light with vinegar and brown paper (“You don’t know Jack”) resulting in yield across stick figurines.
[9] Cement helps dreams be dreamed “one continuous dark wood floor.”
[10] “I wouldn’t go across the street to see her,” he reminded his sponsor; “I mean, she’s daft, not deft at all, and when I’m tired, the last thing that I need is “a cube that consists of Switzerland.”
[11] Chaperone-prone parentage insists upon a steel wool manhood to be battled out of conscience, while the prayer fold grits its infant teeth.
[12] If you want to know what anybody’s done, just ask the prompter in the front row, stumping for the enemy; as sharp as any form of competition, sliced like julienne.