title

rufous. yellowish pink to reddish.
maybe like clay? anyway. as i type this tonite
i see my fingers begin to lose their muscle
memory, my typoze multiply like gnats
in the scurrilous pond. the rofous
sky is reflected in its tainted depths.
everything tinged with decay these days.
talks with old friends, as if i'm seeing
them all, hearing from them, from the last time
tonite in the car i put on a seat belt.
i told myself it was because of the pot
it's always the last time. everytimes we get
to talk, or hug at the door or if
you walk out the room for a taste of hunger
leaving your fat bell lies be hand, be hind
behave. you . tell me i have the voice
but i feel it's gone. no one writes like me
but how is it that no one listens anymore.
no one ever is to blame.

how i see it. no one is to blame. he was all
about it last nite. i told him if you're the guilt
then i'm the blame. it still applies. how to get
past it, how to come to terms with it how to love
someone you know might leave before you're ready.

i'm really so sleepy now. he woke me up
early. now he's out and it's a good thing.
good thing .i need some sleep. gad, i so wanted
to write, but i should be able to tomorrow.

one cigarette more. everything's foul
with the taste of already published.
your back turned to me i see the sneer
at last. grok it, dude. it's why your
glasses is so square. make that two sullibles
and a night stick for the good man.

we played catch up , my friends and me. asking
about loved ones, talking about getting
in touch again, real soon. there is a somber

feel in the stitchery this winter. as if leg
mutton on the table might contain some private
first class. we won't give him a name. must protect
his privacy. mercenaries fun half the show
and the other half is co opted into service.
what am i talking about? amputational scraps,
platitdinous pifferies diguised as the answer
you've been waiting for, even tho you knew it
would remind you of your father.