Grind on

Well-insulated
with Gore-Tex
from fog
and drizzle

and with context
from
an arch fiend – The
Mood Embosser.

Self
raised
dot of braille. Father finger
sensitive.

·

Dryness in the apartment?
Feeling blank – like paper?
Stanzaic room, sitting stance?
Activity whose

environment organizes specific rules and conventions
determining status, nature, structure,
use. Gazoo through
Flintstones’

TV  
contacts
boss:
‘Can I go now?’

·

It’s part
cortex
governing heart
muscles now proven susceptible

to stress were it not for
‘the beak of ego’, laser-tool
polisher and resurfacer
of semiotic rubble.

Yes, peck.
No. (peck)
Yes.
Na.

·

Nature programs convey seniority of ecosystems
we don’t understand and are destroying
at rates on par with every disease’s mutational
reappearance in young bodies.

Owen against a horse
and fifty years later Surin
against the Formula 1: What is context?
2. What is poetry, anyway?

Count to fifty, subtract
age, multiply what
you have to muster an
answer like no other

prancing misnomer
is handsomer while algorhythms
of Al Gore
grind on.

·

Their low
blows to soft
tips butterfly
onto toothpick

in stentorian light
at a Game Boy picnic
‘Let the lows blow.’
Flush feint

to left margarine
on ‘corn kernel’
to write
‘Keep the Colonel frying.’

·

Moves furnished and with vestments
of expertise
for later sedentary expression
brings in missing the mission itself

to present indicatively
a mandate
for imperatives
licenced to behave as if normal

in the arena of sound
as judgement upon X
set this
tale.