the strangeness that is realized when the words,
scattered and smattered, hardly useful enough to
com-paste/post a poem together, scrabbled letters
on a dining room table, ripe with possibilities,
ripe with the stink of inutility, for the
industrial-military complex of
mind-eye-tongue refuse to work together,
the letters, yes, scattered and smattered,
come on a regularly irregularly schedule,
not put together...
why should I write of this?
write of this of now?
my man-ifesto of inspirations loved and lost,
poems that arrive while I drive unable to record them,
for days now, a poem lay inert in my brain but just on the tip of
my rounded, tongue, the title knew me, knew it was mine to write,
but the man/poem coming together in mystical simultaneousness,
was nope, not conceivable,
thus be advised somewhere in my body decaying
lies a decaying poem.
the title is
The *****, Dimples and Dents Upon My Body.
Perhaps this is that poem; but I suspect not.
This one was written in five minutes in one sitting, a run-on,
run-though
out of control.
so easy to write when out of control!
