creak or
scruff, mag or slit, rack in a canned laff, a rag snicker, a trash telemancer
... why, he’s just a tyro, rattling off
landscape sketches in a landscape, escaped from finite edutainment! play-action fake in the doldrums with a
flapper. don’t flap here, mister. that’s when i learned how to play the dole
drums. a few days of re-hash nonsyllabic
sick time, all across the disappearing
and the disappearing ice-sheet; well helium mollifies your new retail adventure, it’s an extended family, out over the rimrock
outcrop, i mean it’s all about writers using that word intermittently over the
last 200 years, a coinage for hearing
places that’re deaf back and
forward audible porridge one step forward & blue steps back three steps forward & new leaps lack a slinking maze is near to maybe actual recall head back down the beating path flow unto implosion going in a circle as full retreat long reasoning instructions about how to
walk backward toward the cliff that
beetles o’er his brow a maniac in the
moonlight is worth nine in the hand
that train backed all the way from here to Carbon Hill with its brake
pads missing a roll of impersonation
surrounds you with the light of roiling day go ahead and talk in reverse go ahead and quake my play go ahead and rake my clay from walking back & forth on the earth
and going to and fro upon it written
out in vertical style in reverse Polish notation the stupid are there in trashed moonlight
under this gunk and this stare formed by idiot spirals as if the mind encased
in black plastic encumbers Who the mighty absence crossed as a criss-cross in
the etchings down-fever in the conversation ironed out by rotted fools wrench
hatred dapper in a flapped game where the ended are pretended to be stunned in
the life form as staying beyond a
twisted work done there with voyage as noggin imbecile wrung by knots
with slapped under anger mash astray in
crystal to the media wracked rung
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