Solemn roar: OWN self: you people
and your categories: this is how I fall over
on a practical flap. Having to always eat
the Lenten gun.
My darling, you, reader, hold this
squeamish tentacle. I need you
here in the anteroom of my
rogue blushes. (That’s an old
bohemian trick: the creamy force
of cerebration.)
Please, please! Who are you,
swanky others under cool black
thunderclouds? The mule gait,
the quirky haircuts, the swear
words, the personal devices.
And if I abandon myself
to frangible sound?
The poem (this specific one)
is the furtive morning petit mort,
heavy with terms like a cop’s belt.
We melt into our styles. Green
sneakers. Hug. And kiss. Hug.
and kiss.
Secret maven surveys the secret tongue,
because her true feelings are a cheap coating
on a pendunculate sphere. Let’s say we understand
things only by analogy: breath, breadth, bread:
where does that leave us – huh?– in the ocean
of original things?
Otohime 
“pendunculate”: I love this word! And this poem!
Maybe it does Ms. Gordon, maybe it does.
This penultimate craze downsized
running through the calves
capsized near colonial drafts
mudslung and rewritten
by the hobgoblin of parody.
We up end and dare
we just think we just infomercial
for ourselves with the makeup
artists and diagnostic equipment.
Hard to say you know if you really mean it
but allthesame, it's heartwarming and special
to like like the like. Interested more
in the how my skin looks older mom,
dramatic results in thirty days.am
You are the one worth reading ready. If I had a wish, I'd wish to sit in on your class or send my daughters. Always interesting and best use of the tools.
Thank you Mike, and Meg.