A poem is never finished, only abandoned.

"What?" she murmured.

Allow me to wear your smile like a smile and your moonbeam like a moonbeam and to not care about imaginary consequences of swimming only 25 minutes after eating. Let me ramble about blue wallpaper and photographs of forgettable people and Rubik's cubes ruined by curious siblings. Permit me to hunger, not for emotional depth or underlying purpose or universal motive, but for a cheese sandwich and a few apple slices, preferably peeled.

Meditate on the  growing   distance    between     people    and   how  we can bringthembacktogether.

Shake, candelabra. Dis and re and interconnect with foreign objects in the modern dance.

"Josie could not place qu"otes correctly. Thi"s saddened her greatly. An"d we were the victims of her living letters.

Analog analogies and electric electors and other various variations.
Vicious laundry cycles.
Charon crosseyed raised to the song of the new hyperdeflation.
Repetitionrepetitionrepetitionrepetitionrepetition.

Learn the rules, then dekonstruct] and play* with it.
That's what they teach us hapless literature students in class isn't it?
That we can do that to our writing and maybe mak esom einteres tingrea dingfo ranyonewh odecid estori skenter inginto this area?

Note: Written under severe nicotine withdrawal. Have not had a smoke since Friday evening. I hope to heaven that I've finally managed to quit.


~RS
January, 2005
Used With Permission