FLOOR  PLAN JOURNAL

 

                                   Wonted Mediocrity

 

Now frore the hob; now cantles fangs necklaced,
St. Marked; the lithic claw that cast the moon
coeval cancellous and gelid primed
about the stump should it recrude, prepuce
in teeth (the gears that petal clocks unseen
bloodcast bloodshades earthended fore dawn),
houndgarnered gamps to cover roots, the grikes
they leave, their broken boneends scint in sable:
Bel, I can’t help but see it so trapped beneath

this volcano: Fort Da Da! Fordone in this
(then snipped back normal (never let them see
you try; to not excel the goal)): for max
concision, max complexity (with all
their efforts and bravadoes cant…). Well, Bel,
now for the hell and praise (I haven’t praised
in months) that takes a lithesome heart and won’t
be read (not cold enough so called too cold,
how gardeners finger to the frost and plant

an inch above before the thaw (the scent
of salvos outlasts the gravid and the
swagging graves)). I see us there dumbfounded by
a tireswing by riverlight orreried
as is umbrellaed night by wishing fools (who cancel us),
as circumscribed by delight as defined
by what it wasn’t, ‘fraid, marmoreal,
as if at best we might like dogs bite hot rubber
to wrestle God to uncantlate for no reason.