Bland On Bland: This Author Is Bland Poem by Nathaniel A.Wallace

Out on the veranda
Death whispers in my name
Or I to it, see we
Are stark as starch, and deprived
Of hints, becoming taking -
Tasteless as clouds;
But because I cannot see myself
In this so-called bust (What is this closure?)
Or making a fuss, with a breath and a cuss - I but feel
Like a sack of nothing in a bag of everything:
My world as a wold on a mound of mold
With algae that grows as verdant as anything.

Do but come,
Yes, pass-her-by; although
The white words worn on my chest
May be palled, and
Pulsing against the effusing sunset
Proposition is negatively positioned,
Hazily sitting between streams of sunbeams on this paper,
And the shadows, and then the wood
Hewn into my chair;
Sporting inkblots of indolent moors,
Here and there
A palsy maple is swayed by nostalgic musicality,
Or the motion
Of red leaf-fall;
Springtime itself is aggregating volition,
Like my mind caught in the snowing cotton of a drizzle.
Still splits on the crack regimen in the driveway.