in my neighborhood

To help me further illustrate the immortal
we mayfly and quilt toward
indecision and worry trips.

Why do the shambles—
the tomtits of whistle plaid doos—
the pachinko palleters suffer the nape of the midden?

You are an empty idyll in is true hue—
swizzled in pray baste lily—
if you drone wireless cantos
fiery pinnies you may sire:
more
more
more.

This is fall in Jamaica Plain, MA, on 11/16/2021, at 8:17am.

“A poem is like a bank robbery: the idea is to get in, get their attention, get the money and get out.”

— Charles Simic / The Monster Loves His Labyrinth

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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