Living alone in a house in her mouth

collage poem

For the Bee Muffler Cannons

I’m a Harry Potter fan, as well as a church-going Christian. I also like Tale of Two Cities. I could fill a lot of pages analyzing it but it would not benefit anyone.

I think in subconscious aspects, as revealed fright. I don’t bother Rome. Rome is far away. I would argue all containers (coffers or coffins) are stuffed with secrets.

I’ve checked wobbling maybe 12 steps, volunteered by good suggestions turned longer, centered consistency, said the faint voice twice aloud.

I and my morning labels are serendipity. I come into play when you stumble on me in a peculiar place.

I find my way to work in the same flea market. I stand corrected memory. I retire from commenting on compliments.

I weigh it’s no use for me to go fish. I find the storehouse to some extent still in the process of the longest ballad. I am sequestered to the situation with a word less personal.

I hope and wasn’t harsh.

I am just an amateur with my own punctuation // the weight || of // the | thick woolen | shawl.

I think of wind as metaphorical for a breeze. I think of a bright billowing scarf as metaphorical for a colorful fluttering scarf. I think of the festive scar as metaphorical for a prior injury sustained on a holiday.

I wonder if we have already beat a “dark mass” back to a miserable life as a dead horse.

I’m really not sure what buttons to push. I need additional notes in the literal sense.

I hid the elephant in the room. I swaddled it in sheets in my head.

I perfect the most mortal disregard. I pull something up from the mouth of the king. I assume I am the very kind said to please.

I get snagged in floods. I peel our skins off. I split abrasion anyway. I rub the halves apart.

I love how the only difference between the two of us is that I know the difference between a mother’s womb and an egg.

I wash away your hands in a pile of hands.

I’m suspicious of the idea that there’s an axe for every tree, but it nevertheless depresses me. I am not sure all little things are created before they are destroyed.

I know a masked bandito who’s hung up his mask, but cannot stop robbing. I have a few bits and pieces you should look at together. I think some bits are rather wonderful.

I’m things that have been left unresolved – not at all at home – with the certainties of stories that tie up neatly at the end.

I am coming to intended ends somewhere the circle starts to show some wear.