Almost Blue

Looking back through my drafts, I found this interesting poem.

FOUR POE

melon call ya-

seams such suite Tsar roe

sum thyme

OK, maybe it's not that interesting, that's why it stayed a draft. Here's another newer draft. This came about from a rhetorical question Jonathan Smith asked in a Facebook comment, that I took as a writing prompt. I said I wasn't going to write anymore poems like this, I made a mistake.

HOW IT MUST SOUND

Like water running
from what law,
past whose room?
Towards what jagged drain,
from the drowsy
mouth of what jug?
A gurgle maybe,
from a vowel
resisting violet,
the sigh the moon makes
as it curves into its
scimitar self,
wearing lipstick
two days in a row,
but not for you,
highest heels fading down
the hallway of last hope.
Like hearts of icebergs halving,
or what you said you wouldn't say,
being not left of leave,
wright of the almost wrought,
a paper clip
sliding off a multipage report
on possible triggers,
wobbling like
wounded ducts.
It sounds like you
not understanding
how "busy" she is,
almost like the first wrinkle
on Chet Baker's face,
like her hand
on a well muscled shoulder
like the last puff
on the myth of Marlboro,
like man down in penalty time,
A soda sound, pop
of flame, surging smoke
from the hole
the moon leaves
every misted morning,
not quite the kiss of cotton
from God's cleanest
tablecloth, more
like the first
sugar riff
off the Devil's
purpled lips.