junk's will.

Eddy Ebdy, I am leaving here, tho
the great gouts of jonquils have
jinxed my quill, bounding up out of
many scattered brick planters
in the funked out American Legion
resale shop whose odd glassy stare
goes across the street to that
cinder-block hulk upon whose
surface is written in gigantic
lettering

WEAVING

as if declaring itself and all
to be such, and I echo that,
whispering to myself, daidala,
deed ale, all dead, alduud,
alderin, daedalia, psychadaidala,
anyhoo; jonquils like cups
the color of emperor's robes,
tea cups for amorphous mythical mammals
whose odd glassy stare goes out
across the street to that
series of mangled trees
supplanted by that blood red
ideogrammagraffitofigure
looking mayan-chinese-and
poly-topostic like a shape
that says its own name

and means it
as only reflexive
geometry can, mangled,
but they will grow

I carry woven jonquil teacups
brimming with ink
to your hollow brick table,
Eddy, where I know you will be
laying out your oafy, dumpy urban tarot
whose rapture is detritus
absolutism, and the secret
of that lie, how we got here
in the wrinkling of an I.

Its grey goo event
turned out to be more like
a pink pillow fight

young svelt girl centipedes
with bouncy rows of breasts
and eyeball nipple spinnerettes,
I gargle ink in

yellow's cuddle;

jinquil.