Time for Another War

I am the one who is always stopping by for soup, asking for extra bread, do you have any cheese, hey is that a guitar et cetera. In a dream Emily Dickinson speaks a language I do not recognize. Hells I can imagine 'cause of hells I have seen. 

Softening then.

Picasso's blue period dragged me kicking and screaming out of postcard-sized Maxfield Parrish prints and later drop-kicked me into Max Ernst's whole body of work from which I did not emerge. Lost in Boston, a shark in the harbor. Steam rising off black coffee.

All hints are cerulean, all confirmations red.

In what way is this a reply? Weeks after letting sparrows pick through them, the strawberry beds are bare and hay-colored. It's almost time for another war. Toads in the garden and other murderous beasts, lest I get too comfortable lecturing others about love.

Hey, who are you doing background vocals for now?

Deconstructing deconstructing Joyce in dreams which are themselves deconstructions of ideas of rest. 

These hands were made to empty themselves of everything, including emptiness. Three rosaries later able to ask: my god, what have I done?

Let go, be a radio for Jesus.

The heart is on a journey that "prodigal" doesn't even begin to describe! Rhubarb crisp recipes modified in ways that mean we all can eat. 

I'm not usually like this, I'm usually like something else.