Sheila E. Murphy


Our Metaphysics

Stories (what about them) thrash. There is this rush into their close. And after: texture, cooling off. Afford me, say the crimped legs haphazardly still standing. When the Imelda shoetree comes to mean abundance, we should safely shy from dram shop law and frappe the streets a little while. Entice ourselves with what we will become. "I think the difference between truth and fiction comes down to square footage in the brain retreating to its genericity. The main thing has to be forgetfulness, so thigh high practice lifts the odds." That said, the upper sphere professor fired her quaint assistants. Renewed baptismal vows, got married all over again to a rejected spouse. Turned in the keys and walked away from "all that." Trash is what we offer universally though not astride the paths comprising neighborhoods our own. Our metaphysics try to glisten more than they're reputed to have done during the last biography. Chill means Phoenix when disrobed might be adorable as infancy. July nights meant not there yet. But I lived them less resoundingly than I had whittled something to stem from partial models. Of things quilted. Grammaresque. Sitting has meant different things to different people. When a form of worship stings, it has been time for a long while to scintillate some other universe. She achieved canonization. Thus, her books were shelved. "You mean a lot to me." I situate myself in tiptoe fashion near the clanking boat that laps all day against the brittle pier. What's left to tell has just been lived. And we are proud to have it bandaged from the left side. Promise me you'll tell it often. So I don't have to relive. Scams of derivation, antidotes to bravery.

As It Happens

The whole day is spent postponing everything that must be done. Thy will, the paint job, and incurables. When learning yeasts its way into the cerebellum, it is time to capture notes. How long have you been alive? Were shoulder pads a part of your security? I reach for the telephone. Whatever hurts the speaking process hurts me. Tales keep surfacing about the one who hoodwinked me. The word unworthy comes to mind. I'm not a judge, but a collective jury. Speak my language, time. Tell me history is something you've pried out of listless minds. The squeak room in the fashion model's dressing room. The ledger where it says to cope the way you do. The integrity and chaperone that make it worth our while to exercise a form of capability that may not be worth our while.