oh, the sweet smell of victory

much like a dryer's exhaust
please please please

don't let me down now!

ten cent day
the cat shakes his bell [?] in the next room
shaking off yesterday's excess and
summarizing [?] his readiness for
          the next

          dried rosemary   paint cans
          paint flecks on wood a door
   that doesn't shut right

these are the tools we work with
these are the descriptors of
   yesterday's salvageable meat guides

stuck beneath the woodcut [?]
          you and I

how different we've become by
living similar   lives
   who'da thunk it?
verisimilitude is not to my taste—
   I neglect my own karmic energies
for a power saw and some groceries

through windows and doors of
   suburban dryrot expanse the
floating framed image of the Rubenesque
   twins   walking naked through
their own shined existence
caresses like cookie dough for nothing
   more than
   an adjustment of the fan—

I hate how complacent I get
   with people after just
   a few short months
insulated existence in parallel
   universes!
no, freedom should be revoked
and shackles of eye-to-eye frameless [?]
   tongues that can only lick
   indifference and speech of days
      lovely things of life's a meaning of
   what insects do between walls how
      they live generations among themselves
      without ever being discovered—

for if this is what always happens
among the cryptic and encrypted,
I'll take my changes
   with me
      on a solitude barge
pull out the stoppers and let
   the current flow through until
   it stops
at a destination more to my liking
   than not—