Chat
1.
At day’s edges
The chatterers gather
For a lark, on a spree
As the zoom call stalls
At unstable spaces
Gifted with multiplexes
A common tongue
Mistaken for vocabulary
Whose ancient abrasions
Adhere
To footnotes & bombs—
An aviary of blasted Spanish
Mistaken for a gift demagoguery
Of the social banal
When you’d strum, surveilled
If looks could be palliative
As wind’s high, cool
Mirth—
2.
Don’t cross out the libation parade
Become interwoven with orchards—
Windblown
When everything else becomes rank
Like mired cameras—
Changing tune’s grasp of heaven
Necessary with peaches & alto
Suffering
In corners of a loss the wind
Accrues
In the cart no one reveals
Of Finches
Burnt magic
A dullard’s tongue
Sand & alembic
Pay truth to flame
The ruined voice of the goth quitting specialist
Pays truth to amber
In a national somewhere
That scuttles all the landmarks that you rarely even sing
If we are
Ourselves, as finches—
A likely outpour
As truth to flame in failed ghost presences—
Abetted breccia
Through which we often all are just stale news—
Be false, be favored
By nuance
Buy in, think twice
Listen to your lover’s advice
In quaint back rooms, where reason
Often feels
The Greengrocer Goes Nest Building
Those who imbricate calypsos
Are not red
Except when assaulted by ukulele tuners,
Lank ghost materialists.
Blink three times & tell me you’re nobody.
The wind is lost ghost material
Unlikely to become
A rumor, what am I?
Think, if possible, to avoid being anyone
Sometimes, in reverse
Even if unhoused mourners lack
The thrill you must become.