What dead book conditions
your cultural reality, your croaking impulses,
those dark desires you deep freeze
in the recess of the cobweb mind?
Spell it. Say it. Stomp/stamp/sing
the aardvark creel of a reality
you dare to create you ripple
that quickly dives beneath
the fake calm of the ocean
of cares and culture.
Who cares how many prepositional phrases it took to get in every detail that you wanted to add because the details don’t matter now and will change by the time you finish reading this you mote in the eye of Tzara, you Gulliver in the shadow of Ball, you monster in the unfeeling science lab
of the moment
that just passed.