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The world is a quagmire making us
                                                    hobble,

like a similar rubric as if with orbital
                                                    wobble.

Fragments come to occupy the place
with which they hold in the present.

Undo the day,
keep it as it may.

The excitation energy
can be lost by obvious touchstone.

"Someone took a taxi to rob a bank this morning"

Careful examina . . .
unavoidably lost gale, pale . . .

epiphany uprooted,
a dead cherry tree, figs picked
by my Grandmother's hands of chivalry.
                       Plucked, cleaned, canned, frozen.

There are many thoughts in me,
                                just there.

Herein lies the phenomenon
that tramples the individual voice--
not mine--phraseology
of the half dissident
or some obscure window
like an opened redundant letter;
anti-modern impulse many long a-day.

Last Sunday I spoke with people
old & anew;
recondite voices 
as if Occidental,
bursting out of the aura's halitus
like a vigil Prison Guard flat on his face
while the cell-door hangs wide-open.

Somewhere, a private world

is where I need to be,
with a revolving head,
with extended takes
that moves like a time-monument
receding out of the frame
of circumfluous ambiguity.
Today! Sweetness of wind,
begin, will you? Overcast,
rave-fast, fade-to-slack
in the backyard; the sky
resembles calculated
smoke-emissions. What am I
but snared with the power
of a Knight (royal posh).
Call upon The Terrorists
with Eisenstein-eye.
This isn't Photoshop physics.
I adapt to the Real
stitched into a great spearing.
Cacti of throat, like an
adjoining book-case.
I will be a duelling dragon's head
skimming through milky white websites
full of Russian text,
palette of disguised philosophies.