lost format

-love as a three act play if i could tell you about my craigslist forays-- there's a woman's looking for a guy your age to take care of, preferably homeless with an addiction she could feed,she loves to cook-- but i clamp down the urge to supply you with different or a need to question ownership of the mix i smoke. you're off to some well traveled city,in a mid rise suite pasting together words in a way i envy without malice and yes, there should be a word for that, but admire doesn't carry the requisite pain. i devour your succulent phrases seeking recognition or remorse.flex my muscles at the wrong time, arrive at the table after the candles are extinguished, apologize for the future, again. so when you arrive,late,i won't whine. i will interrogate and rail a bit, piqued with the thorns of our shared sin. but no whining. comfort food's on the table . it's cold .let's eat. ********(__)******* late last season, we wondered if we'd make it past those dim short days into the wild winds of spring. you were apocryphal declarations, bristling with intention. tornadoes pepper the midwest now. roads, infused with glacier and flowers,bloomed too early, drown. still i see beginnings i see opportunity in mud and slick and straw. what you see is sky grayed over, wan sun lighting tips of clouds barely made out but they sing: of iced summer with a lemon twist sipped by a red-headed woman whose emerald eyes make impossibilities of your stuff of dreams. how once you had that you could never go back, how once back you thought deserve was the same as to have. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!(__)oooooooooooooo no wonder you couldn't sleep on the bare rubble of my bed. stacks of cracks filled with slack lack and mandible mornings, disappointment dossiers on the dais. let's compare notes. fake the statistics till they tell us what we want in three studies or less. elegance and simplicity trump the complications of a mandlebrot with broken syntax. the band is on its way. pinks peek from hazy blue eyes,closing on the coming dark. there's an orange cat curled up in the sink. he's been there all day, paws over his eyes. ashes on the floor remind me i'm a writer. you come in to talk,but i'm looking for the voice of my great-grandmother to hop into this keyboard and hold my hand