13 january

Foggy-faced alarmists trundle blindly off the docks and into locks filled with shocking developments: these are the headlines, no breadlines to stand in, no bagels to land in, like inner tubes to ride in to safety on easy-go rivers of quivering ease, sliding through avenues of sense-making stories of the fairy tale variety… these are the days of miracle and wonderful, where anyway anyway as we were saying, the playing goes along, as the thing rings true, and the snails are there, too, clogging up the intake valves, salving their curiosity with travel, unraveling their sensitivities and exploring their proclivities in tiny little bits of movement, never guessing where those steps will lead and the developments will breed in terms of outcomes and the overflows to the floor and more and the basement and the door, but as it all works out (as if doubt were to enter, as if no egg had any center) we can trust that rust will oxidize in reverse and the worst is yet to bet itself out of the equation, so if you station the wagon, the dragon will speak naturally and no hands will be required on deck for the wreck for the fitzgerald in question the lesson—as we clearly see—is the tea is capitalized in this harbor and the text that is a-comin’ in loudly sings coo-coo even as I’m writing through, knowing that this is how we do, a new truth, but pleased indeed, even as exceeding all surprise (can’t be analyzed)(swiftly surmised) and as we rise to the end of the wonder that trends toward poorly observed sentence structures we wonder what such offerings will prove in terms of consideration when compared with action figures and extensive discussions of batteries like rams and clams and pigfat and what’sthat to a rose (does it smell as sweet?) (is there really any meat) and when the greeting’s done what’s to be held and what’s to be led and who runs when the setting suns?