Fork in Frequency

I.  Amber State of Grain

Seldomly held opinions,
relapsed on adversity like an enthralled pear.
Tirelessly bashed from odd ended, blue’s sweatered spectre.
One legged begging as the tailored suit coats
filled with jest filled twenties and antique photographs of ashtrays,
golden hazed glassware holding onto sunken grayscale ashes
full of burly guilt and one side fits of embered rage
But the insides different
then the triumphant outside.
The silver luxuries only cleverly speed when seen
in brick layered alleys
and the beggars and peddlers
only tell you they are
unless when they forget to selfishly pray.

II. Humming a Dew Drop

Floating on green buoyancy
waiting for the sacred fresh water to sneak out from under me
like doing labor without any value to show or
for a man made wave to bombard, trying to turn a pet
into a one off slave.
Staring at where clouds used to feverishly evolve
when association meant abnormal
and word play was a sex game, not an effective technique,
just a way to bang a black sheep
because their opinion of you was handsomely strange
and mentally able to bid on a farewell.
But I could never shamefully kick her out and the esteem
and she wouldn’t passively passionately tell me I was full of nothing
and starved on biscuits filed with absolute innuendos.
She willfully passed away after our first vacation
to the attic and I tried to educate her on
stuffed similarities and seductive semantics.

III. Being Told Later

Six pack plastics lining a tub full of delicately used ice chips
bought out by precise pigeons wanting a place
to tremendously crash.
Only when the awry robbers come out do the self sufficient,
double blinded humans show up to wait,
black denim khakis, long banks lines that double as death sentences,
winos trying to act tempted by the lush beaches
of Barcelona where age is nothing but an illuminated filament
in a heap of heavy star dust.  Carbon meddled down to complex basis,
left eyed stasis besides a myriad of parallaxes.
I always loved staring at the cracks, separating the pixelated grooves
of sidewalk because they reminded me of dying sunflowers
being prescribed  out of date penicillin providing immunities
for therapy.

IV. Calming Essence

Grit over the Mahogany coffee table, missing legs
like a childhood memory still stuck on the trunk of their
now axed apple tree.  Not even a ladder could pull
us together even when it’s made from splintered words.
Tenderly pressing up against the momentum
that swung down the types of gyrations,
capillaries hibernated in the desolate icy strife
of memorable mnemonics.  Fate always seems to
miss when shot towards sun rays and family hay,
grouping pieces of tether under sloppy weather,
the kind you salivate to, the touching of nail
clippings in the toilet bowl, and only when
the figure of a meat head shines through
a dinner tube will I feel
biblically cyclical, naming patterns
like a group of neo nerds plausibly
calculating the reincarnation of heaven Gates
or the returning of middling Jobs.

V. Wandering and Wondering

The optometrist recommended me shattered
glass to prevent my disorder.  It’s like a round robin,
heads on soss hinges, never a mood to articulate
under the tunnel from seamless up and
draught down.  Bounded by discrete alienation, the kind
when the proprietor is only chasing down a one eyed
Saint Bernard.  And numeric's  lead me to fenders,
tramp packed in a Blue Moon soaked napkin,
scent of blood orange’s nostalgia sting underneath
those external bones, binding those stray, loose
strands of cob webs tossed on barb wired tents
contemplating Lucy and her band of mixed wicks
like a sunder under the Pacific,  Rusted pedals
hyped up to be a new changeling.  Seeing in
the fog of old men’s stench went through the
percentage of tomorrow.  In it for a future’s vision
on a thyme leaf later lent out to a cricket
thoroughly reminiscing on a banana jacket,
refining a pig silhouette to be unafraid of a
trumped step.

VI. Produce a Serpent

A green black board full of dots
like a universe covered in backwards t-shirts
used as smocks.
Sprinkled acrylics silvers measuring the seconds
before the chaotic taps of the paintbrush made
from dissected shoelaces as it’s hairs.
College backpacks in direct violation of a cosmetic affair.
Clashes with grave stacks and moss stashes that
only a pairs burden could negotiate with.
A dimpled cheek that only a blade of artificial grass
could interrupt these slow tides of sanctity because
when I view the fishing boats sail down mud raked rivers,
bending at every trigger finger, where many wedding rings,
each detached contain the lost souls of a steadfast maturity
that once seemed so extremely branded like a dinner table
but ended up notoriously bland like mixing all the colors.
And that's when the young, self sustained import adult
could finally abrupt their Netherlands and waste their
abundant time to reclaim their primary feathers.