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Cortisone reduces my bruised ego,
when spiked with a scathing aside to my protégé.
My eldest girl is in hireling bliss, his shirt done up with bolo affectation.
The dark ages descent is hastened by the lack of standards.
Wrist curls in the lavatory lend me another unexpected source of strength.
Blot away the perspiration, redab the underside of my forearm’s prominent veins,
But anti-heroes joined in sullen cacophony have its appeal.
My memoir is on the daily schedule to elucidate what is civil.
I am a monk transcribing in the violent shade.
The coronary bypass circumnavigates,
and digs a canal to indefatigable parts,
bathed in rustoleum to weather,
a hose exposed to dilating and retracting elements,
like a hyper, silicone, baster bulb,
creating tree ring expanses settled beneath the garden,
that measure based upon the heartache of the seasons.
Seek the fall 2003 sediment.
Its sublime pigment flushed of turnips never visited,
or blanched daffodils.
I pass the nurse a pinch of starstuff.
Zero Attitude (1)
I parse the flint edged cards, cut face up,
that gleam on a Jack’s boutonniere, from off the fogged Ray Bans,
eclipsed by therapy quotes, emblazoned on the underside of Larry’s visor,
that has encircling stars spackled out a glossy white.
Outside the moon negotiates its fixture with the sand crabs outside,
where a shutter shot of light offers a glimpse of slick runoff.
The dealer smiles, his caps revealing purposefully decadent eyes.
**Copyright 2009 Paul Handley, all rights reserved
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