I utter. My mechanical parts interrelate, talk
despite my feeble trippings as my words fill then empty.
Logos ensconced by my feeble trippings, my lack of grammar
the television, splintered, only silence, a silencing of vacuous
plenty. In the space, in the planet, a vestibule to solemnize words.
I am stuck in an oeuvre of oils. Meaning hisses, whispers
out of my dying bones. Tears, discovery of despondency, to see
intent in your blinking windows, compassion. A receptivity,
found only in children, in JackÕs lithe idiosyncrasy,
do I see in your stale exterior, your crisp(y) skin,
burned from within. My paranoid hands, your exhausted dry
red peppers, your tired raw shrimp lips, burdensome attire,
giant leaden feet, heavy, overbearing space.
