Inkling 3

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;