Dear Virginia

Dear Virginia, there you

are on the wall at midnight

with your hands beyond your

face, with the moonlight

on the fleeting paper

that holds the study of your

abstractness like some

disturbingly calming sound

in the background on

Tuesday afternoon or

Monday night in a

blue-green sky

on this blue-green earth.

And Gertrude always

comes around these days

around two PM just when

you’ve gotten out of your

millieu that you keep

yourself in and she remarks

how it feels like January

when its only just October,

and she blurts out how

wonderfully eccentric how

eccentrically wonderful

all the blades of grass blowing

with the wind are on that day that

was supposed to be in

January are today in October.

She suggests you have a tea party

even though you don’t like tea,

we should have a tea party she suggests.

We shall invite Pablo from across the sea

in that constructive obssession we’ll

have a tea party where everyone will

come a smoke cigarettes that leave

a dauntless fog covering our heads

only to be pierced by the obnoxious

man’s laughter overflowing from the

golden-silver pianos pounding out a song

of your national pride, a song written by

a man on a bucket one day on a farm

with too many cows on the West Coast.

Gertrude and Virginia and Pablo

sat in an unsequential order in chairs

outside on a patio that has all

sorts of strings jutting out in all

directions and told their narratives

in their unsequential order and

talk like profiles in the sun in their

chairs on a January afternoon

when they were at tea party.