Slim slam

I can’t write when I swim, or when I carouse. I tear the paper when I write jumping. I might be able to rap and jump, like a you-tube rapper, a beat-box poet moving hands and mouth with buh-boom buh-boom carrying the scheme, the meme, but I would not be able to wrap presents. I run on, I run on, a drooling metamorphosis of words, the emulsification of phrase, syllable, wash and rinse, rinse and repeat. The run on sentence is subject to excoriation, rejection, debate unless it spins and boils, illuminates the percolating words upward to break/ upwards to break/ downward spilling/ arcing into the coffee cup. The wrinkle of coffee as it twists, delivering itself to ceramic, hot to cold, black to sweet, hand to mouth, mouth to whiskered face, whispered fate, plucking strings like lutes, plucking eyebrows, plucking laughter out of air, the bewildered eating of words that stink that see that fall off the pickle barrel off the modern drive to derive meaning from every sneeze every wrinkle every scrap of skin, the lathered parchment mortifying wrinkled flesh, fresh breath, final breath simplifying the exponential function of language repetition and the canning of fresh fruit every summer since language and cans first began.


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February 2011
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