Because I am not into poetic husbandry,
I don’t see the point of a desiccated dedication
to desire; animal allure, the pre-emptive absence
of a heart weighty as a hummingbird. Counting
the hours spent trying to differentiate myself
from want or its dereliction, that four letter word
nobody swears by. On righteous days,
I like to fashion myself as a globe-trotting man-scold.
I’ve been told to hide jewels in strange places
and sometimes wondered what other stylistic effects
were to be found had I checked the trough.
All my good thoughts expatriated; they write to me sometimes,
a little lonely, a little perplexed. Transnational
orphans in a romantic lexicon whispering
sweet annunications to demotic farmhands dressed
as yogi initiates. The love of a good obscurity,
besting the next beast. Listening to the troubadour
at night-time croon:
o where did my amatory context go?