I'm slipping,

stepping silently through
mountains of air
wind
whipping this clay shod body
earth and sod and
stones to small to see


I'm stuck,

this pen wedged within
my corpus callosum,
not big enough to handle the task
not up not *****,
doesn't have the stuff.

I'm all.

Honest, to the tip of each hair on my head
cut and styled, and put into place;

truth bubbling out
from behind crimson painted lips;

but so that I may not mince words, / there is nothing straight about me
save the razor's edge / with which I detail my semantics,
my words cut with conveniences / resilient as talcum powder

you / we have so much to look forward to