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While I lay awake on a recent fragrant spring night, after my usual routine of ablutions and wondering if my enemies were right all along, an apparition appeared to me and in placing its hand on me, allowed me to recollect God’s original vision of this board as a teeming, pan-sensual marketplace of ideas!
Candy streetlights in sumi ink pitch, neon fondness for the Williamsburg bridge, this lick is for you, my last and my seventh, we've struck an accord, august and augmented, trading notes of guinea gold from mute and cunning saxophones, hard bop jazz, no east coast gimmicks, on the platform edge when the J train visits, out on your ledge in a woodwind instant, I care for your furlough as much as I'm able, but repose is for the old and the operating table!
Out beyond the last space warp, where the ultimate parsec starts to curve back from beyond time, I sat huddled in a prism full of machine elves, all of us singing an erotic rosary. Each one in the voice of my father. Every word an unfolded quark star. With our lifted our voices we petitioned fervently to the Prime Cause either to annihilate this board in a fractal hypernova or to rejuvenate it!
The poet sits in the quiet with a brush, so self-contained, so confident, so sure of themselves, so mute, so 'poety.'
No spots of gravy on the shirt, toes tucked under the smock. The poet's head doesn't turn. The words are embedded in their brain from some ordinary scene, some action claimed by birds or frogs, some weed obeying the wind.
No haiku sweats, gets it hands dirty, screws, gets drunk, changes a flat tire, picks pimples, blows it nose.