You cardio in a sea of idiolects . . . diagramming interior monologues . . .
The right stuff is within reach of the polyvocality of recyclers
taking recyclables to a redemption center . . . Suffice it to say what? . . .
A dead zone exchanges inanimates feeding quarters to blown-glass avatars
while questioning the preparation instructions jotted down in haste . . .
Your pockets bulge confusion . . . and continue as secular entities . . .
A go-between oozing cheap cologne you rarely go into the yard
where the sundial does time . . . every once in a while . . . Of course,
this is all from Stage 1 players who smoke the endgame with lush abandon
tsking you for dealing a bag of KFC extra hot wings at the head shop . . .
The aluminum block from the melted-down cans of your childhood
triggers something . . . perhaps the shortest straw exiled just out of sight . . .
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| Eugenio Recuenco |