Trbx

9/25/07

Trbx

“I have no emotions associated with briefcases” and flippant coconuts tell of blackness and rain. A horse named Brideen and cuteness contains chopsticks and Emily’s top hat. The rain soaks through velvet moonlight to freeze on my skin-a kind of healthy change from clamminess and trees. Penny Quinn turns Pink and the ironies of archaic and no strings attached become manifest as a blank titled poem unravels into a jumble of numbers turned letters turned numbers-hexadecimal riddles and pastel flowers and this would be a cool puzzle cloud. Somehow, the rain falls on Morrie and Emily Dickenson, to make Tuesdays with singing feathers-a fitting testament to September. Philosophers and dentists are weirdly combined and inextricably merged as the nebulosae roll over.