it is a strange world, and stranger yet to make sense of it
how do you think the truth ever comes to be?
delegations of correctness based on the imagination within quantifiable parameters
all march to the same tune
but no tune is the same…
the quail chortle
running about on the snow
the geese have their
are in constant excitement
wouldn’t a heart burst?
yet i have two modes:
slow and slower
contemplation has left me a stump
if this is strange
what is familiar?
the metal ridge to pull a cap
off a bottle of soda pop
the memory blinks
and that was familiar
the way it made a noise
and you knew
metal and glass
to ask yourself if you’ve ever accomplished anything
single points of condescension
travelings of moot and beyond!
when i go for a walk
life doesn’t look for bridges
it’s the bridges that look for me
constant is under feet
wanderlust? oh, it’s wander-something…
in constant consecutive compilation..
and so i wonder if this lonely ground has a song
and all better ground wonders at me
if a song was ever necessary
one foot goes in front of the other
otherwise, toes would be on heels
and geese would swim backwards
through an ocean made of classically poured dust