You seem to have these labyrinthine moments
in which 1001 strangers hang on your every word . . .
well, maybe not every word . . .
and printers' devils brown-bag the New Narrative
with finger-lickin' goodness
retrospectively, of course . . .
Like when you are regarded spot-on . . .
Suddenly, the clouds part . . . leaving you where? . . .
Leaving you here . . . in this difference of opinion
this semi-detraction
this double-wide
this then and now . . . of nail nippers
reportedly able to cut through bone . . .
It's quite obvious that you've been fiddling again
with the (place) settings . . .
Have you been taking your meds or are you out on a limb
with the go-betweens straddling bipolarities? . . .
The oblivion of being both is contraceptive, yes? . . .
I have felt this from the false-start . . .
Then doing a walkabout with the architecture buffs
though being able to regard each with a finer metric
is a good thing . . .
something worth going to bat for . . .
like the ever-present sexuality of the so-called moment . . .
the labyrinthine moment . . .
when the next installment arrives in the inbox
long after the deadline . . .
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| Laura Zalenga |