Humidity in Me
Had I an instant
of humidity in me,
muddly to abscond
from recondite woods
in atrophied plenitude,
my numerous apoplexy
at the turn of tropes,
tropics, vacations,
aquatic inundations
run profuse,
my secured,
manicured,
rendered insecure
by my premature manure
that had to turn a sin-hushed endure
to inure anew,
a newer, freer self
than ever believer before
had in ever after heaven
had heaven after paradise
had lost its lice,
nice pollutes
upon mice-fence.
I never seek above.
I get a hold
of what I speak of
from, of course,
oblivious clouds
drowns in variegated sounds
upon multifarious,
redowndable redounds
my sounded voice.
It had hoisted
three times more
than a fevered pine could
with all its shine,
lest in shimmer
it should with brilliance
its brilliance in resilience,
cacophonic,
laconic,
inebriated buffoonery
of offals of sacrifice
redeemed in world,
one wonder,
one fever,
one love,
one heaved believer
in bever beaver,
left her,
leaver,
it’s all a scene
for an Oscar season.
Believe in no treason.
Believe that leaves
hewn from trees
drawn by the strewn daffodils
of a bride’s swan song,
of a one’s bright swan song,
of a midnight awning,
woke,
yawning,
yoke,
blossoming,
gossamer,
spells,
in my tokened bells,
I liken not myself
upon the infinitely vast lots
of men allocated perfidiously high
or in any degree
in semblance to enviable ostentation,
but by the positive denunciation
do I dystrophy my distribution,
a trophy of crowning.
A Steven loused,
like a mouse,
housed in a blouse,
because of Rick Ross,
we thought,
not some gang boss,
or a radiator aviator,
wearing deep voice
to infantile eyes
or tread upon us,
that is, the royal we
in the accusative,
because we don’t derive
any sense of fitness
of what’s right for business,
of what’s right
among the listless,
heaved ambitions.
Has your ambitless world
any shocked revision
for invidious envy
to regalia see
another me and me
through the crowned achieved
graduated destiny
that it was to weave
a thread between
the seams of a head?
Seemed it a dread punishment
to write in verse Jabaz
for syllables
or to hold the cord
to peel a reel,
seal for deal
of word upon page
to turn a hurt pen,
a riveted eye,
a seated, drodded draftsman
that has by the calligraphy
to render clean and neat
what by the eye
is intelligibly interpreted
as in voices besought
by the amplitude
of the course of thought.
Half, half,
a cat and a calf,
calf and half,
happy,
caffeine,
defying finesse,
seance,
since,
remembrance,
in this same instance,
rebuffed,
buff,
stuff,
bluff,
again.
Again, hope,
had reign,
a day or two of rain
or two,
an inch or two,
a wince
or what didn’t mean
since it was ambiguous.
We complain
in plaint and plain air,
full-throated,
an easy song,
camera-covered,
asymmetrical,
invulnerability
in swan song,
again,
yawn,
by awning,
by stretched,
perched,
hunched,
crutched,
buttressed,
indeed,
by recessed,
amphibious,
liquid legs,
indeed,
had redeemed
an innocent seed of oak
by nut,
by leaf,
by sap,
by log,
by bark,
by year,
by trunk and code,
and the latex frowns
of plastic passings,
a trespass too fast
to trust in a past
that had in its outlasted past
a something of perfidy,
it seemed to me,
had clung to me
all too snug
in its smuggish, evilness ways,
devilish,
elfin,
elephant in the room,
quake,
a baker in two.
But thirst
does worst in us.
Braid threads fate best,
nest,
feast,
creased,
minced meal,
in peace,
in pieces,
rest.
Threesome by marriage
garnered a family union,
a son or daughter,
had a replaceable fungibility
in an inoculable vacant womb.
But it was ready for thee.
As ever,
I was ready for thee.
As ever,
I might ready wish to be.
As I might never seem
better to be,
I retraced steps
so that the same day
may pressurize my groundhogged eyes
into beseeming
that I don’t move forward,
but the world rotates for me.
And that finally now
does a world move.
At the pace of my