i think i'll write a poem,
in order to simply
squander any hope
     for a strict narrative...

as if i discovered
the secret of: perpetual
motion...

           not even close!
the perpetually changing
narrative...

         because what should
be orientating?
      a poem as if a honing
device?

even i could pass the time
of day according
to benjamin dreyer's
   1,503 word article...

well...
            or that two word
crossword puzzle
clue:
                  mt. fujiyama...

tautology.

big world, little world:
in it:
      music for a girl sitting
in a cafe on
    a rainy day -

      Mia & Ana -

                               and
all that has become:

   anonymity
           anonymous...

         unless
    you encountered me
last year:
               i was cracking
jokes at the moon
for its meteor shower
               acne riddles...

(interlude of 10 minutes):

         thought like a puddle,
heart like an anchor -
              and...
                      a depth
of being like the sea -
       although in potential
only...
          
                  and all for:
a tightrope to wait on
  through to 5 p.m.;

   and that's an odd vacancy
of a choice of words
that will not be spoken
casually...
         beyond this:
      immediacy / non-use of
on a canvas
            of somebody...

as ever: thought put back
into a rock,
    hands put into pockets,
heart -
          referencing
a habitual sense
                    of rhythm...
while the soul turned
                       into a yawn.