Bluely, the panelling.

Here I sit, like Marten Luther's Here I Stand.
Tid bits and fans of the bland
wood and wood stained everything
truly.

Bluely rhymes but means little to bridge the gap
betwixt the thought and the image in mind.
What do I do and what to decide
staring at an object to destruct
in mind and in time.

Objects are boring next to a person
a love, a friend, a fucker, a mother fucker.
All stories need enemies.

Lacking an enemy protagonists brawl.
I stall
in picking up on the rhyme,
the rhythm,
the deftly disguised signs and bums typing and wiping
wine and tears.

Memories as compressed years
like air in a vessel
to be shot at
in the teeth of the great shark.
Smile you son of a
and I withdraw shaking head at purchased 70's movie reference.

Blond polish girls, sips ahoy, and (Seinfeld)
what is the deal with
all this wood stained paneling?

And the good poems the love poems are too personal.

So this is what you get.