Flower in the Field

My current plans for the rest of my life

Include my as soon as possible departure from rural purgatory

Chain-balls include, not limited to one suburban home

Totaling four bedrooms and two baths, one with a frog-curtain 

The bed and chest of drawers is bulky burdened with marble tops

To weigh the ability of moving the load for the sixth or seventh iteration

Knowing its next arrival is temporal until another home can be purchased

To which I am uncertain if the damn stuff will even fit 

I have attempted to auction the four-poster and storage bins via the internet

But left in limbo to mount an antagonistic relationship between my head

And the material buffering its thump to floor each evening  

I wrote one book to document my prior expeditions in hope that

I be permitted to forget the adventures or at least bleed the details

Into the background of my compendium,

As it seems I am destined to recollect my totality in piercing redundancy  

I have another novel in mind, but hold off authoring the tome

As penning another tale in my current environment is one of the most

Depressing resignations I can fathom embarking

This fresh script is a grand tale of worlds colliding all the while inside  

I imagine the thump of my autobiography if it never leaves this place

The stale milk-toast labor of a rodent in a metallic-wheel

Rotating in repetition until I finally masturbate my memories to death

So it is, I am compelling change as best I can, while still under the economic scythe 

I even obtained conceptual employment, which is being offered

More money than I ever thought I would make in my life

To accomplish a challenging task, that I am pretty sure I could complete

Yet the task is a haze of mirrors and lore in what is in reality a non-position

Due again to the financing arrangements, litigation and cancers of the great wasteland  

So I can imagine the departure, the arrival, the plug into the old/new machine

Staring around absent the old ties and bonding or attempting in the silences to form

Allegiances with divergent breeds of vampires and werewolves and moreover

Ghosts of ever spectral league to embrace me with their ethereal handshakes and kisses

So in this happy-man sad-man graveyard of yuk-yuk’s I am on the precipice of hoping

That one may materialize like silken stem ambrosial and delicate like a purple iris

Bending open for the yellow of dawn to be at least for the moment less ghastly than the others

To be tangible as a flower in the field  

And so all this commotion of moves and absence

Drifting and furniture arrangements leaves me grasping in the unknowable

If that which is the so very common structure and order of human passions

Is ever cable of intersection