MY FRANK MEMORIES
Oh fuck! I am so faraway and wasted by
everything gone. I just don't live here anymore.
This world has no more parasol - just fast
endings, loose pieces, and disjointed
enclaves of loss : madmen sunning
themselves in duplicitous words; all
those cloying wives as one atop a
sunstreaked porch. I can't even
marvel at things any longer. My
jail-term is a biography text.
-
A Summer breeze at the window
is a daughter I never had. The wildlife
in the gritty park is the mark of all
my drowned intentions ; slight
piggishness, lust and labor in a
bushe-basket of need and want.
Rumor has it we all get a claim.
-
This chiseled sunlight is a subterfuge.
And I am so living on borrowed time.
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