[X] Housepainting Distraction

[Tay Arrow Sherman]

The room ghosts itself with sheets, though A single table still blossoms white dribbles And pliers fluffy with rust. In the midst of a bleachy graveyard, It trembles, old crooked oak Spattered with the white machination Of downhome transformation. At any moment it could rain, The ceiling puking sticky latex primer. It's all irrellevant. In the next room, I am a little birch-grey shaving. My activity: reading a speech by Larouche on 'Synarchism/Nazi-Communism' With an _expression_ of bemused incredulity. Outside the birds are gabbering in a language Which they make by throwing chandeliers through windows.     -Tay   P.S. Somebody please rewrite this and email it back to me or to the list?