And now the esotericism of tandem surfing . . . grounds you . . . isolates you . . .
and you're all about bragging rights . . . nit-picking
with a falsetto's exactitude . . . overwhelming the unsuspecting . . .
You're good with that . . . and other things too . . .
dissecting the lives of players who odyssied your perspective . . .
post-coital images seeping through the day's fringe . . . infinite
in their looping . . . The octagonal sign . . . full-term . . .
to fill the spaces left blank by unidentified mannequins
who of late have insinuated themselves into your hand-wringing . . .
the substance of which matters not . . .
If only you had stopped off at the corner butcher's . . .
Listen . . . time and again . . .
Why bother rearranging the decor
when, from the horizontal, every move you make will sting? . . .
What was his given name, anyway? . . .
Your dresser awaits . . . Act One Scene One: The Fall of South Troy . . .
Floral patterns will go well with the Pinot Noir . . .
easy on the palate with fresh cherry and strawberry and super-subtle tannin . . .
Even your white-wine-only guests will find a friend . . .
A dismantling of the exhausted light is one way . . .
Again, the opening line? . . .
Parlaying the quintessential location . . . location . . . location . . .
with an heirloomed rant . . .
Noteworthy . . . you managed to conglomerate on cue . . .
and returned ever-so-briefly and ever-so-quietly to the streets
of your middle period . . .
You became expert at profiling purple . . .
replaying the cinematic collage driving the bus . . . simply to taunt . . .
The normative signs of disaster
that constitute everyday life . . . humiliated . . . adored . . . continued . . .
