what good do these words do
except help one spend a few
wasting lives in an ideal world,
perhaps stir some blues,
low and crisp,
acoustic assembly of notes
on an old and grungy,
ill-tempered guitar,
so eager to be smacked and flicked
on the higher side;
let the sentences make do peace,
they mean nothing,
except tango sauce to
a plate full of tofu chilli,
instead,
see the audacity,
the presence and the indulgence,
the invisibility, lost soul
bouncing off of
strings of words
in search of truth,
hesitant to hypothesize
the vantage of the hand
with which, when we write,
as that of silvered mirrors
helping us with the word 'I',
poker-faced like sincerity,
too accurate, sometimes,
in expensive chandeliered lobbeys
and well-articulated shower rooms;