deadbolt, or a cowpoke & his crankcase

essay 122 of Poet X : a treatise re: verse(d)
and also one of the Loss Lieder

quietly the mind on drugs (the mind undrugged, the mind dragged down) ferrets out uncooperative stationary target fields; i want to emerge along that edge, into circumference, like a bitter vibe fruit all its tone, mild opt slang to here the title gets gyrating; i’ve got to get that title grinning; once they’ve managed where call response flips to silent, now here turn a suburb under erupt asphalt heritage within or without sort of our harried age; i now find slick razor motion hassles to be: break surface, break surf ice; all tapped in and beginning to spring toward a green light; if the stride can move as the flame says to stars, then here’s roads, a damn goodall scary open; now new word slake has to find its durable opposite, which is there form self, a new hand, broken finger, a breathing first: we were going to say something; a blank preceded that untoward; have to get thru and beyond the box, this box, full off words, a new tool machined as company, a slick annealed at the finder keeping all my empties into; i never imagined i could type all those words and not destroy some world but OK here it goes: the shimmer is the goal, is the gaol sum form with hind-bound personally-crafted or it’s like that they call anti-seasons; keep moving in one wavy line thru fog, that mist with sentences like cretins at a beauty show; i believe sorrow gets placed in the emotin’ con with then & there a million parts of us; i sank down with the black cat; this would explain why i’m never the same; i’ve never been here before; a necessity mines where we pigeonhole brazen, the plaintive sound; the words are wounded without affect; here needles cap a polar quiet; a key where sounds as mute glow mutilated; scrape the under side where sleep’s got a sentence; i heard so many drones the droning street flew apart like a passageway with near crux the door grew hands, the snore boasted sands, a mind grates as readjusting, o i’m sorry the ammunition scuffs lives with unpaid series how many times do i lock ourselves to this stanza? that’s why you should never leave the mind at a grope, or weeping hushing, somebody’ll come along a product gets marketed i barely use those off-rhythms now; this is a signed affidavit by a native speaker, listing toward jiffy