The Chair

Mahogany Desk. The bright flow
of computer cords,
another triumph over dreamscapes.

Much can be praised when the subject
is writing.

Depend on the chair. I have
flooded light to it,
perfect in my pouting pose,
nonchalantly blessed,
prudent as a pen can get,
just to sit there.

Can I rest up in again?
Finding my space gives me warm possibilities
to navigate my map of Planet Knowledge
and carries me away like
an Egyptian baby in a basket.

I love to lounge with the friend of
a friend in my chair,
perking up with allegiances
over wordy camaraderie.
I welcome the pad and pen intelligently
addressing the honed guest of honor.

Much has been said about the Bleed.
Finishing the taste of pretty commas,
and women with
mocha,rose,tangerine,cloud nine pink, ruby
red, or vanilla periods.
Genuine fantasies in practical synopses.
I happilly work my agile wrists to the bone.


I will swoon over the foxes and sleep
with fondest memories,
notation a la'mode,

never to stumble would be a lie.
Here I go,
up a high hill with sure-footed steps gauging
time where
mango fruits might be picked for the
Verse's best feasts.

I step away from the chair,
admiring soft leather in all its brilliance.

Waterlilies, trust me.

It was my own fantasy to mark the
Moor in a time of sadness,
now it is my duty to speak of matters I
alone feel moved to tears about
in this stately chair, all,
for those who relish the language of
my febrile, fanciful utopia.