justwrite 12 march

It would be foolish to imagine a more perfect union than confusion between the parties the aisles rolling with carpets and the rugs shrugging off all other advances the sidestepping dances and the unaffected stares we care what we are talking about when there’s listening in and the fishing that swims upstream to catch itself on a neighborly hook well that’s a book deal in the making that’s a November I won’t be faking any sort of inspiration the hesitation in stringing together words is absurd when they herd themselves along the strong and the weak the giants and the meek we of the poppy ears and the crinkly noses we cannot sleep we steep the tea and we prop the pillows but the filling’s been busted and the trumpet’s too rusted to call anyone home we’re alone but not scared and hardly unprepared for the whipping of the cream and the rolling of the steam out of some ears some weary warriors and some seamless sailors slip through the streamlined selections the directions haven’t been missed the moments none too blissful for a wristful of pocket watches the elegant observation clicking past at a brisk pace we erase ourselves too easily we skip cheesily by with only ourselves to shelve only our dreams to catch up to and only our breakfasts to stomach