Sfumato

Open carefully. Synaptic reverb, grayscale of rain...

black with just one yellow. Umbrella etiquette; shake, shake.

The offbeat warmth of leftover pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg

permeate the sentence that is a period. etiquette; shut it down!

shut it down, tiny hands, hold standard the marine option.

Mind your surroundings like a good neighbor, panhandling

passions unrelenting for the mendicant figure hanging distended,

crooked, for (re) considerations. Sfumato! gloved life-size quartz

fall back into this rouged skyglow of hazy November tumult. Blended

fallback into the hazy darkness that is indifferent in New York’s nave.

Smoky edged, wood framed soteria of the world in need of the female

deliverer... dead in infamy. Deliverance. Get back, gotta get back, backdoor

deliverance; get back fine shading. Throwback shade on (re) appropriations,

rough cut, reincarnate. Street sax. The betty of craft beer and write-in

candidate wine spin, in her insubstantial country of the mind, Sfumato.

To the lady...bid goes to the lady.

Whenever you hear culture reach for the gun! Deeply shaded, denuded

males and the auction house is still a divided smoky old boys club;

shady club. Feels good to be invited! To blend the power of November tumult

moustached on thighs red with stubble burn, then softened,

expanding the mind. Get back, get backroom doctrine and dogma

gravitas. Which do we revere more life or death? Auction history. Evil eludes

easy answer, as Queen Calafia hovers over his deathbed immunity,

drawing out some darkness, blurred waves of pale blonde crisis

fatigue, early into November tumult. Smokey midnight of insecurity, musing; 

in a world that is a death cult the gavel drops, and blood spills. Sfumato!