Luff sewn

Ars gratis artis
Sounds like art for free
Or at least some small gratuity
In a country where tipping is optional
My limits objectively assessed
Sort me from my passions
With a silver sieve
It would have been better to use cheesecloth
Sift obsessively the beetle larvae
The junior versions don’t have demons
Only soul devourers
Outraged when you say what you want
The pendulum that swings back down
Arcs dispassionately on
It can’t care less
About language let alone throat
Only neck for a soul transplant to drip down into
The sky vessel
Deep enough to make an exploding heart
Then explode
Your hope is my broken promise
A duration in which I pass
Between one eye and the other
While these gestures go unseen
They are their own reward
I collect experience in scallop shells
Hold the umbrella
Over the upward facing open mouth
Do my efforts exist
For how they make me feel
Or how they will make me remember feeling?
Usually I write until I ask a question
And decide what sort of grammar it demands
If I am as patient as a melody
The elevator free-falls so I buckle myself to the floor
Depending on the giant spring at the bottom
While a seagull stalls on the wind
Part time carnivore
I am already staggering out among you
Inventorying my skeleton
Getting a haircut
Moon music