the finality of imprisonment calls for retreat when vested in circumstances...
cats now rip away the wallpaper from its elastic foundations
uncovering disguised donations that should have been mailed back to the senders…
pointillist pictures become confused polkadot images hanging over aother masterpiece,
this one a caricature of a perspiring barmaid from Puerto Vallarta
without eyebrows or glasses,
serving up easy over embryos and huevos rancheros just for the ask…
way out on the veranda the scope gets more diverse,
w/ a photograph ov an overdressed naked user
forgetting to button up his coveralls
thus triggering his mailbox nightclip superimposed galactic universe…
…and all the while we inmates wait for the rose-colored whore
who drove back to the border to collect her pocketbook from some one eyed fruit trader
who was last seen gathering used manholecovers
from electric irrigation sidewalks…
“hey purple woman in the sensual shirt
worn for the 6th straight day,
tonight we least expected this
meanwhile inside Peter’s vast eclectic library,
much of its inventory has been lost or borrowed,
obituaries have already been written
as literary America has already been usurped,
and the foliage now covers nearly all the remaining books and pamphlets…
one notices little proximity ontop complacency accepted,
clandestine donations to the World Bank now equal a small fortune,
expenditures non existent…
while businesses continues transacting arranged love affairs
another forlorn poet surrenders and leaves,
abandoning all thoughts of marital bliss...
and everywhere drunken pianos are put up for sale,
unexplainable sharp/flat refrains
that seem to merge on some other indefinable level,
never divulging any hint of resolution
before the next phrase ensues...
now the prison cell becomes the focus of serious consideration
as the “now” is lost in the dust
(at least it still emanates from disappearing consciousness),
while hypnogogic Music allows freely moving appendages
within each line of improvisation,
and plants and animals procreate for another growing season,
no mistake about when or where to climb
or float and vine to accommodate the pervasiveness of gravity…
at last incomplete themes are reinvented,
donated by the mononucleosis-induced art dealers,
who dictate free advertising instead of compromising their own private collections,
as paintings become currency exchanged for painter’s blood,
exposing an artist's methodical will to reel in closer to the Void,
rationalizing, “this month I could have been gunned down for exercising my free will
had I not donated my blood
had I not sold my work on the cheap…”
thus, consequences of these concessions are way too great for compromise
or resolvable by process ov elimination,
so the borrower must be responsible for his meager offering,
must notice who jumps before the gun goes off
for the brotherhood ov long distance runners eventually withers away
during this fanaticized race…
ultimately, can there be any doubt neglected supplies may some ready-made answers
that eventually decay after deciphering so many unwritten questions...
let it be decreed no sulking on verandas during birthdays will be authorized
while composing loveletters to wayward savants
hanging out in pristine concert halls