Too Frank Poems

from a ceramic egg shell glass in which you could place a small plum a sip of sake reading lunch poems in the words there is evidence focus has been tampered with in the present tense he is not booking it to the Frick without head phones past coin slots without any paint at all without even a black rectangle tingling in his pocket only change only books of screwdriver poetry leftover bolts of Barcelona cigarettes without any way to like art without any comment section without shoulder to shoulder complaints only desires to paint with poems what eludes the painter without a brush of time who vainly always has to guess when to freeze time some fish would be nice with this but who even is in the mood for sardines or haiku erotica like dusty armpits make me want to make your fig sweat until it’s raining