Stiff and sharp, unkempt perfection
lies down in the company of weeds.
Listen, I resent the curve of each gaze
which lands delicately upon my roguish
persona like a maple pod. I can’t exactly
say if I was realized or simply a daydream.
But I’m not making a distinction,
I’m creating a distraction, erupting
as I often do in contemporary fashion.
Let the grace drain out of all these
false pretensions, let each inauthentic mouth
be pressed into a paste. The wasteland
dutifully encroaches upon
what can easily be put into words.