Beauty is too skinny

We abandon what only annoys us, take

our faba and melon alone and early

in such as light as the curtains allow, purchase

the weather from checkered gentlemen,

sketch lilies in the margins of unread flight novels

and barely speak of how our days went.

C’est la.

Take the print

from that wall.

It is far

too patent.

Hang it

over the antique

chifforobe, near

the finches.

It will echo

the colors

in their cage.

Our motives

are apparent

as the manner

of our shoes

is learned.

There is no music here

save that which winds

your necklace tight.

You twist a fingered imitation

of Moebius, strip gently

an oyster from its open shell,

tap your foot slightly

like your mother

and bemoan her

taste in stony gardens.

I tell another story, quit

smoking and wear myself

like a pedaled machine.

Say la. Oooh

this certainly is

the new man denied

before us, more ad

vantageous for the film

we’re in and simply

wet with worthy.

Pour les femmes

nous croyons, our visions

drawn by hands shifting

hairy in the softened

glare. A man is easier

to mold into a door

than to look at with this

much wonder. Viens-tu.

Tiens toi là.

Show us

the lighting

behind the fine

fine angles, the

lines pinched inside

the leanest shadows of you.

So blasé, the fat absentee

wiring a preference to the auction.

He is an artful office of rich

thick wool wound about the ankles

of makeshift lovers. They may

know a riddle and he wants

its name. We erase our faces’

creases with red styptic pens,

skin the peelings from our apples

and caw, when cornered, like mottled bitterns.

Oooh la la. She

is cleaner than a mother

goddess, but wanton

as a drunken peasant

at the harvest

festival, yet

finely so textured

and very well

mounted. More

than just a whistled

vision and brighter

than a primal

mask. And shaped, oh,

no demanding abstraction

or intrusion of colored

idea. No nervous

German this one; he had

a keen and steady hand

and placed on her

the correct amount

of breasts. Voila

mes freres, hypocrites

lecteurs. Ooh ooh and oh so la.

Tonight we buy.

We buy an ounce of odor.

We buy much and long

coats of favorite animal.

We want, again,

to endow our possible

limps with the lithe redemption

of hide. We cover

ourselves in the numbly felled,

in blacks and browns, in chosen

homes of nearly wood. If we

could see beauty as clearly as

the hairs we trim weekly,

we might stop bending

into magazines which ask

for nothing but our envy,

our awe, our firm pursuit.

We might lose then,

finally, these breezy lobbies

that make us wait, that play us

always, taut as catgut

across mauve violins.

What a palaver

these instruments

strewn about the band shell.

The minstrels of blue

have shut their lockers

at the station and left

whole gangs of echoes

to wander the tunnels, playing

fugues for crippled quarters,

cradling papered bottles

to soothe the din of afternoon.

A sad Selah. Our stories

are neither about ourselves

nor beyond our nailed ceilings.

There are colors

rawed in the hallway

and guitars in the kitchen

twanging inane rebellions,

the hits from days we surely

romanced or imagined.

We burn like flagged targets

in a blown sandy country

and scan the courtyards

for sculpted children

memorizing their phases of moon.

They may have lost their desire

to play as waves or sparks.

We dress darkly

and nothing of

the night surprises.

We mute its sirens by hanging

yards of grey-flecked drapes.

We count the roses

in a heavy delivered vase

and control the show’s volume

from the couch at ten paces.

We read of an emaciated carpenter

with awl holes in his palms;

he’s thin and set between panes

of glass, suspended in urine

and more than once named lovely.

Don’t bother to shock us.

We’re inured of shock, though

we know of bearded censors

and their casual cigars.

We are more than often

no more than amused.

What is immediate

we name knowledge.

We are politic, and can

spell, with some assistance,

abnegate and aesthetic.


more light.

We must

have light.

This is the art

of the lesion

on the classical

mask. Our


is a tragic


in blankets,

to cover

the darkness,

to illumine

our room at night.

We misquote

the whole

known universe

and mistake

the sublime

for fruit or time.

We haven’t begun

to define

our limbs’ uses.

Published by joesmithreally

Slipped away from increasingly stressful, disordered, random, and violent urban life after 3 decades to live in peace and attempt to steward a small farm that eventually helps pay the bills.

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