the same bleep and haw of the fading fanfare on to
some other ridiculous county submerged in clots
of congealing air.

stuff to stick to you and smear

tired jaunts back and forth through escapes,
others end.

notions of some self caste formed by others hands.

lines of rhyming poetry without mates.


the pureness of the entirely ritualistic performance given to the separation of the artist in the quiet method required to continue, in the cutting and pasting of the original material from one little white box to another.