sna[red][ra]pped between righ[eigh]t and le[a]ft
side, the brain refuses to register bird sounds. up
on the hang[er]ing metal contr[aption]ol board
round reflectors sense motion that’s thrown from
be[low]ggars hands bus[iness]ted up[wind]ward
outside the pinging doors. we all know there can
be no[thing]body that w[ants]onderful on the ground.
after reading some pomposity in an interview of a writer who i don’t care to name on the blog of one man in the southwest, i became slightly enervated. only at first, however. i quickly grew ireful and continued to do nothing and say little. oh well, as it goes i am behind the times. or i am in back of whatever is moving forward with my lip[s]pursed and a cannon full of fumigated flowers made from withered silk. and now, on with the picture show for i am stuck also inside of myself and vaguely outside of everything else.
Henceforth to know being as, to be of. Hypothetical and in the infinitive like winters become. Hello 60 degree January NYC day. This pot of coffee is. And so is electrical light that shine shine to illumine the paperstack. Double shine, I say. The line of cars is. And so is cornershop singing, but to a much lesser degree and in a tense that casts its light over every eventual thing. Tense cast, I say.
The writers continue to strike. There’s no bowling or rounded awards. The politicians are made up in their minds and ABC news reports of a crying young woman behind the curtain pulling show of Mit Romney . And then his face fell off – as a young African American male sang the national anthem and then proceeded to clean away the tables – only to have it stitched back on again in South Carolina full of tarnation. And then so too did the face of Hillary Clinton, her serious composure flawed like big marble. No carving there. The machine that’s made them has gone bang-clanking onward with its ghost driver and its foreseeable future.