Thursday, November 8, 2012

haibun | Sheila E. Murphy

Say I (have copiously disappeared). From the dental chair, I answer, "You
have no idea," when asked, "Is it hard for you not to speak?" Each tidy
reference demeans each rest. When I was Jung I trespassed, neatly,
upon categories devised by someone else. Say aye to the nice man
who thrives across the patch of cinders. Overdosed on overtones, overtly
as he can. Maybe dreaming, hearing books performed aloud by Paul
Hecht. Reverence offers slight freedom to vary, according to geometry
quoth la profesora. Time to mimic decency, primacy-recency, aligned with
doldrums that one might begin to speak. Those real words, what's beneath,
proposed by weaklings who would domineer our past and future
histories. Deep breathe means equally draw in and release. You know the
drill, the oil spill, the economies of scale. Ask your mother if she knows
what time we're due. I'll watch the streetlight for oncoming heavy
Impeachable defense mech- and the subsidies all washed and put away
Sheila E. Murphy

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