Rumblette

Here am I standing around at your gate
stultified wet cold and unsure
ever since the uproar been a blind date
should I should I not take your detour?

As the fog burns off
as it always does and
as I personally know it will
in Santa Barbara where
the hills the locals call
mountains embrace
the strip of touchable
sand and rugged grass
punctuated by palms
my garbaged memory
my cornered personality
my best intentions
are split into sundered
pandering straw piles
of after and before.

While the wound heals
the one on the forearm
from reaching in where
forearms do not belong
the reparations in secret
delicate debts and reversals
of time and karma paid
routinely in fleshy currency
my best estimation
my calculated transparency
my impotent exegesis
says it is no surprise
under alibi and guise
we do the work of jesus
before and after.

Have you read this far
difficult to believe
the poet is reverently
quirked and pleased
so you know already
there is kick in my soup
and a fulcrum in my history
a fault in my chicken coop
where I thought I sniffed
a skulking fox and decisions
crawl on elbows over trenches
and my nature unnaturally
winds up like a toy and jumps
line by dubious line
ambiguous somersaults.

Here am I standing around at your gate
stultified wet cold and unsure
ever since the uproar been a blind date
should I should I not take your detour?

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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