like lint,
a residue of wandering
squashed associative avenues in the age of
biographical misfits
facing off
and spitting out syllables ....
blown fused glees rattle canker
soar, in the muddle of private audio wiring
what if you trance-fur out into walking
state creep like the predator
drone over silence, asking you if oh
alien amounts glow squandered by hoax bookings;
what if i made some mischief on that margin?
what if i handed you a cognitive descent?
get yerself disintegrated--
the shadows have a name for it
it’s a nose-dive right thru into pragmatics:
names have barbed-wire
& hearken in the freezing
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