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hanging by the jitterbug popnap
chickle chickle
chickle chickle
olive remakes
a portered day
slow on the sylvan tray

she sleeps
at wide
and on cotton
reflexive and
made for the age

in morning she writes
besieged by plague
and whist
flung to the bright

an ocean
vast as the greenling
envy as pride
her fingers score
violence disguised
as a floral arrangement

heart: it thumps and courses
the stuff through the vasculature
pump and slide aloud
these moments of estrangement
between strangers
divorced long before they were married
with little in common
but the quality of their memories

now, as disorder deepens
and the possabilities shrink
each day
no mission could be real
no love could heal
if the happening was lost
down the drain

when you give up everything
you'r free to do anything
the only credible aim of writing
is self-liberation
say what you will.

it's for no ear but yours.

every one writes.
few live.