Still Life with Labradoodle and Time Machine
past and now
waltz on the splitscreen.
Watch your new was
with two minds
and change nothing.
The patterns trot without forfeit.
Some blurred redundance to trace,
a bit of reverb on the misrecalled.
And what might your double dog retrieve?
The erstwhile that drops from low clouds
then bobs like fowl awaiting depiction?
Not in this touchless room
where time selves pasts that dither,
indifferent and familiared, some not-yous
betweened in self-history.
They are not your names.
The dog wanders off
looking for something to disinter.
Roads with their carlack, the season opts for autoerase. Accelerant at the hibachi. Another side for your tenuous plate. A compression, lossless, edging toward forgotten record. No place to sit in this chilly holiday, the now sidles off to chat with the others. Peach sweat almost leaving the abrade. The ride in 4/4, someone calling for a waltz, maybe. Copper thieves in May’s yaw, arguing across the oldies station. Scrub pines and kneeling fields, a plan to misname shorebirds.
Mr. Potato Head Will Have His Revenge on Baltimore
The ineffable a missing endoscope, a language of dice clicking values. Nostalgia as the back of eschatology, so the treadmill might be an answer. Carryover in this unfamine. I think I liked the former dynasty better.
I stole an epiglottis. Open, close it went
among the gothic arches, like
a voice-over for the obelisk.
Anyway, the guys from accounting
swore appearance is your fault,
but I speak for all when I say
this is my journey of self-discovery.
Trains chat among the intermittences, kick drum vs. dimmer switchx jetty vs. compost, alarm vs. polka.
Our story continues, chanted
by a grinning antiself. Bad laughter
and the ladder collection. Just summon
a dead artist already.