chit chat

my nicks
look more like
cuts appear on sundays

what's undays
they do deep
in a basement of the soul

if the picture surface
of the pool truly
recalls night
or if it's a mere drunken dial

looped conversations hang
from saggy black phonebooks as
the worms devour another cloud
the odor ides bicycles it tries
tirades and microphones

stress fractured
binary smoke inhalation
in the fret barrio

there won't always be tomorrow
taken from the shelf shoved
in a pocket thrown
in a cart and laid
plain on the asphalt mourning

salvage configures ages of salvos greens
of spring are stampeded tennis balls

how forward their steps

notions of done
took them out back and shot them
them long underwars like speaking kindergarten underwater

a tape rewound is spliced, not cut
in which we give up slash back
most promises