We met in sunny fields of juniper; spread out across a flashing continent of vast vegetation. Maroon and crimson were our thrift store clothing's color at faded evening;
the many velour shades of nightfall's anticipation. In neighborhood doorways we interacted commonly; exchanging ordinary countenances for words. Our futile identities reside calmly tonight amid the pulsating blood,
surrounding our heart's home.
In autumn, leaves rained down in auburn mists; descending from the abundant earth. A tranquil wilderness presented thunder amid August's faint lightning showers. We observed the stoic trees while they grimly sighed and swayed between placid hours. Your eyes cut sharper than double-edged scissors; piercing paper-thin flesh-like sinews,
How clear and concise; the summer bled on. Into fiberglass attics of December, your winter sweater, knitted in delicate thread from soft fingers of frail suburban housewives who've known no comfortable mercy. There minds wander hollowly like dissipating ember below well adorned household mantels.
Past telephone calls made in vain; get behind me Satan: I misplaced my wallet somewhere deep in the forlorn chambers of a prehistoric reptile zoo.
In vacant innocence of sultry morning minutes, our denizen souls burst outward, beyond cold January shutters; out past the dry corner post office; these embalmed streets still recoil through stale attempts at misrepresented utopias, of glamor, clamor and thwarted mistrial.
Our sacred love temporarily sways in irrevocable convalescence; I solemnly recall her mortal boundaries in inevitable human concupiscence:
Bar-Jesus still paraphrases scripture in omniscient catacombs off drunken midnight boulevards; along forlorn perimeters of primeval fate; amid flickering tinsel alleyways of biodegradable furniture and dreary raindrop stiletto innuendos . The fleshy worm still festers within her corporeal physique; she abhors herself and not her sin. She delights in others misfortune; and hauls a hardened heart with her wherever she goes.
her purse's fabric is less toxic than her feeble soul.
In a local city hospital on a prior mid-summer morning; many decadent decades ago: while automatic engines monotonously hissed off the Ben Franklin Bridge down the New Jersey turnpike, orbits and orbs of tranquil phosphorescence manifested manifold planets all revoloving around one hypnotic sun; a dawn-like premonition of Saturday sofas on a summer afternoon, a southern city row-home; where a creaking screen door remained propped open for the freshly vacuumed carpet to dream of six coming days and nights without a vacuum.
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