ever walk
                the local labyrinth of english
outer-suburban streets...
and pass a point
between a tree and
a fence,
      like a ****** bride
walked to the altar
  with a lace veil thrown
                               onto her head...
                      but instead:
   adam ant
                "make-up",
feeling a single spider-web
           thread,
    just below the eyes,
exploring the existence
of nerves
                     in cartilage?
             a single spider-web line
     where cartilage ends and
bone begins...
          could it be more
spectacular than
           the cold wind of the north
sea against the budding stubble
of a fisherman?
    come to "think" of it,
this subtle encounter
  within the microcosm
                    of the existence
of aliens
         in the realm of insects...
ever walk into a single
                 thread of a cobweb?
that's as abstract as
walking into A...
           or a zukofsky...
             boorish about bach...
and not A,
              as a dentist's impromptu
                               to craft a sigh...
sure, it's short of something
spectacular:
      in the poetic trenches of
whatever can be reached by words
in the common parlé of
        what's otherwise mundane...
that vague aspect of a breeze
that's always warm,
  and cannot be deemed a wind...
not exactly a philippe petit moment
walking the tight-rope
           between the duo-phrens...
a silk thread of an arachno-architecture
beginning...
      so i walked on,
   trying to not scratch my nose...
       drank my beer, deposited the empty
bottle
         into a dustbin,
  smoked a second cigarette,
  and focused on why i've
been constipated for the past 3 days,
given this heat...
    hell...
                seems my body doesn't
want to give off any moisture
if i can't even take a **** with this
weather.