from the a.m. and the kitchen

the secular or that mission
hiding behind that jar which is wide
and once housed pickles where helpless
legs of green having no relation
to the pickle though they sort of are
dunked in one, cut down, bunched, sold
cheap on the street, yellow flowers,
little petals clustered learning to be

perfect little suns and while
wandering the shy mission made a dash
for cover behind a different structure
of glass, this one green like a pickle
except the gold of a bear’s beer
filled it and speak of association,
sitting there for half a month, a stem
got stuck down that neck too and some yellow

hangs out though conflicts corral like the blue
on top, the folds in the blue,
giving the pull at the yellow,
bending, while the red
taking the bottom says
go ahead but take it to the living room
or downstairs and do that mushy struggle
under the blanket because this is the window

view, straight shot, and a brand new work-week
is warming up and no this is no hiding place;
what is chosen is chosen, but try
to cry less melodramatically,
because rumors have a way of rising
from a crazy creator’s table
and crawling free, meaning secularization
might turn out to not be so bad.


About come to timmy

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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