three poems

Michael Ruby

We Each Have Our Own Words

We toil in the vineyard of Adam and Eve

Each solves this refined tablet

Have an outside chance of timing the silver button a seminary

Our ease involves a program of regrets

Own face in the mountains, held to a standard

Words…

We sentinel pines, incurable bastards, the whole malarkey

Each after these crumbums brang within inches

Have petunias, will travel

Have all the standards in the Simon, brice or regulated, caramelized

Our neck stops lures

Our Sunnydale swelters in an egg

Own pilot to pomp or throne in the incited Pericles

Words base their freedom

III

We elevate our sessions to landlocked basket

Each proud and unfree, ready to break, shatter into a million pieces, a million one-dollar bills

Have omnivores in backup

Have an elevated member of the Simon Sykes

Our precise bird

our registration in the commission

endless deeds, spilled rigor

sizable allowance for unpleasant surprises

Own strikes against the very personable

Words ring

Words follow

Words impend

We enter the moment

of revival

Each person

silvers

this

Rorschach

Each person

silvers

this

contribution

to society

We each

Have

Our own words

We each

Have

Have no illusions

about their polyanna

Have a lustrous foil

Have the pig boat in thine eye

Our sundial

on top of a table

We each have

Our

Own words

Our own

Own

Own soul

to break

the dicey

Own poise

to hold

Own interior

inside

the long

corridors

Own signs

to follow

Own house

to bathe

Own books

We each

Have our own

Words

Each

Have our own

Words

Words add to themselves

Words subtract from themselves

We two

Each race

Have fault

Our toy

Own boys room

Words outgrow

We pray

Each soil

Have dogs

Our lock

Own honeymoon

Words stop

We dry

Each holiday

Have ten

Our poy

Own leaven

Words perp

We dreg

Each salmon

Have saws

Our belt

Own owl

Words sleep

We saw the rising parkinglot inside our gigantic mind

Each voice laved the sleeper and tongues of fire heated the basal

Have inside the perfect rind for our sockdolager triangulation

Our forethought

our foreknowledge of the past

the past the one reality

Own marbles on the block

sandbags somewhere

and a polished cistern

Words aggregators

Words come to the rescue

but don’t always succeed

Life Is Like That

For Memphis Slim

You’ve plated the rating and cry cry cry

Well and sometimes the soda runs out of places to go, places to be

Lie the Rogers to its conclusion, its absolute conclusion

Well the poison ya gotta do at the Poisson Rouge

Well the rose eats the semblance of all

If you don’t understand the roster in the hightailed Rogers and out

Peoples of the iron brigade

Peoples ready for intersections

Peoples impossible to package

Peoples hopped on Hofmannsthal

I’m sorry the telegraph pooped out

The regulator listened without earphones

The basis points knocked on negligence

Sometimes the rice flow breaks the bank and boomerangs

Sometimes the tresses are only visible from behind

Sometimes eleven horsemen eat their parallax and cloister with Johnny Come Lately

pillboxes

Don’t even oculate your susceptible Rangoon sandwich shop bottle blast

Well take a lesson ya gotta do backwards and without the benefit of segmentation

Well inside the icing and beyond the silver dollar

If you don’t understand the farfetched effigy of our lighting and prestidigitation

Peoples of the holding pattern

Peoples notwithstanding the possible

Peoples tried and true in their solution

I’m sorry the icicles leaked into the toystore

I’m sorry the icicles leaked for you

SOMETIMES red devils broker tolerance to new levels hollowing the Rogers

Just keep the mace for the pro forma bop before logic stresses regulars

So holdover lockets rupture puppy love for nine tools prepped for oblongs

Well blackout the bicycle ya gotta do wholeheartedly

If you orange the seeming and don’t understand Pellegrino

Peoples inside Davenport

Peoples of the blue kangaroo

Peoples riding the sink

I’m sorry horsemeat sings for you

The T-Bone Shuffle

for T-Bone Walker

Let your hair down inside the box

Let your hair down the silly corridor

Not the sorry corridor

Your hair down possible Rogers and information

Your hair down Solomonic

Your hair down outside the register of this purple placeholder pining away

For sure the Ryan Express and singalong

For sure the Rheingold refrigeration unit

For sure the Bellevue

For sure the Swiss

Fate’s not my fave

Fate’s got something to do with Morgan

Morgan the cheater who called in-balls out

Fate’s a ride through the polygon

Fate’s the driving position in the all-night candyland

the follicle in the dressing

the premium bouillon for our hostages

Fate’s not destiny

Fate’s not as good as destiny