Aug 252011

The web of syntax fastens
but does not fascinate,
empty aria of here to there
without the concrete context of content.

I extend my fingerling claw to a thread....

"Filament, filament, filament,"
just like the old so-and-so's bag of beard
threading the elements
whisper-slipped from his brain-sac.

The cotton candy pinks my mouth with glue.

Why dot an I
unless all connects to all,
we know not how?
Lying down together

I say to you what you say to me until we hear it.

A vivifying sample
suspended clear in a petri dish
twists forth its tentacular longing
like a potato eye

bursting to see.

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