scripted overtures

an old Rorshach theorist or an inert pavlovian
stutters-- he's got a little something to say--
it's not his overactive gaseous instability--
it's easy to see
he's got utterances waiting
to work their way out--

it's a tenuous ledge on the edge of his siege
perilous-- recently visited upon by the spirits
of nascar--

he sits still mostly-- in the sun-- inches forward
to settle in his throne like a reptile on a rock--
or a cat on a radiator--
the heat of light
to keep the blood flowing--
through his legs--
under the woolen blanket-- the plaid is a conductor--
specially formulated to suit the needs of the slow
train to immortality--
he cant make any books--
he isnt willing to play bridge-- says cards take
his mind off life--
he speaks softly--
when
he speaks-- his conversation is slow--
well-regulated--& upended-- it requires
inspired intent-- to listen bodily-- to pick
up all signals transmitted by his faltering
body and his indexed past--
his
sentences are slowly delivered-- slowly
conducted statements on his collected thoughts--

each strophe corroborates the evidence revealed
in the prior leafy construction--
that wafts
consummately from his throne--