Out from Under the Boardwalk
If you said that you could hear my voice
speaking through the seagulls at the beach,
I would believe you.
I’d tell you that if you stand
in the right place
at a specific time,
When the crows fly home,
You could forever embrace the talk
of my lickety-split contractual obligations.
Held within the web of forecasted spool,
I’d get to know you.
Maybe even set aside a time
to have you feed me
morseled up bread and french fries.
I’d shed a feather
and grip hard to the tuned tension
of a string connecting my sound to you.
A boob shot through a tube,
Similar to the circus,
I am flying through the sky,
A precise canon, I mind. •
If your scripted lines spoke
for your mouth,
Saying, “Your flight is scene.”
I may blush in utter disregard,
A copped memory capping the hatter;
I’d probably trust you with all my heart. •
But say I were to read the stage directions,
Only to find delusion has a jettied
spot on the rail of non-fiction;
I’d tell you to read my memoir,
So I move a step to my right,
editing light grammar in proximal time.
It’s a tale of hawked spurs
into the belly of dragged-on contentions.
It is a tale of coming to terms with the simple fact
That you heard my voice,
My cries from the dove
flying above the boardwalk
and you just kept smiling,
yet I speak of wake.
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