man emerges from this darksome ether. this: time suspended in the ballpark, without fetters.
i have dreamt the truth of my vicarious call. is it not that my measures secure these constitutions of ineffable fruitions?
it is likened to our heartland's acrimonies: dreaming in the misty vale of sleep is the word and its insistent void, riddled by amorous intent of barefaced realisms. there is nothing here but subservience of fantasy's burlesque fanfare on broad vaudeville.
man sinks into the bottom of this, rests in the soft hands of this earth-woven word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies are born ceaselessly!