Friday, November 12, 2010

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy


Quiet turns cacophonetic because my mind hurts. My mind would silence you and your repeated incisions on the plastic fence around me. Everything in this environment bleats barbed wire, and intrusions are routine. Routine includes no chant, no chance. The tantalizing moments lose momentum. Maybe the unscented markers will record in life and after the impossibility of death. Heat beat infringes on peace quieting the urgency of tincture, space, and furniture stumbled upon. Laps once run preclude yet-to-be-done infusion. Character remains hypothesis, whose inference infringes. Success insinuates earned pleasure. Defines the loose rope someone walks across. I eke out an idea then retain counsel to prepare a case including cause. I want a fleck of quiet to impede a threatened stasis. Debt ceilings make the shift from viewpoint to a nonexistent view of stars. Thought situates one of my selves where I've imagined home.

Triangulated licensure, facts of life yet undelivered, being nice versus dying to the point of joy

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