A poem interrupted by grumpy apparatchik
Beanpole, sunshine, gimbals Shift some values, trembles the ground, Eyes in skies, eyes in fries, Isengard's pals you assemble for your plans, quarterflash, you got the cash and you keep running, knees all wobbly on that ukelele photo-shoot, Grass shirt shaking and whispering that the show hurt. Lights too bright coming in, LiDAR my little friend, Paint the stripes on pew pew skin, Wall-E making cubes. BBQing BBQing Can't hear but can see caterpillar tread feeding, hand to mouth North and South, East and Best, I give you math gapes to conjure bromance breath, Hello dawgs and numbered grögs, the gangs on the field chase the prize, the meat stuck between your-
Composition interrupted by disturbing reportable incident at work.
Poem continues after interlude. I felt this is a meat grinder. I slept poorly and awoke in the middle of the night.
Poem stuff. Nightmares. Insomnia. Haunted by violence, vessel for the pasha. Chicken in the woods on a bocadilla. My empty days alone. Looking for white balloons. Surrendered long ago. A shade that watches over children. No one home. Imagine a moment. Watch half-baked generalized convolution sequences transform, make me spit and cuss. We look beat-up. Used. The homeowner association wants my recipes. I have been accused. I have a name to forget. I have your forgotten names, I keep them. Yes,freer in this filthy air than before. Look at me vaporize. Coursing through. I feel everything stop, and start again, lightning between all the raindrops. It feels like tying the tiniest knot as slowly as possible. Focusing inward with only a trace of animation, absorbed into the void like a single drop of water disappearing in a silo of flour.
It glows in time, like a neon hour with unseen hands. A third person feels present. A Watcher.
Walking and moving around restlessly, I try to pick the poem back up like a tumbled house plant.
Heck yes. I find the meter.
https://youtube.com/clip/Ugkx-UipjjWb9jcN7T5r-Vo9x-yJnkmYwTiO
A deep and wondrous silence between the math gapes. The clamor of realization that fresh air and catgut are not working for commiserations. My dear aunt Sally sold her passport for antibiotics. Drat that Nash equilibrium,
Fifty State Banana 