The snake slithered through the grass and curled up behind a rock and waited. La Cucaracha clicked and clamored about, and a flitting little sparrow grabbed La Cucaracha and began flinging her about. The snake watched. Then struck, and ate them both. Tongue tied, trivial, absurd, mind boggling. That describes the yet to be uncaptured phenomena, that which is unheralded, preconceived, and idiosyncratic doubletalk. Search the Rembrandt for brush strokes. Count them all. Feel the energy for its own sake. Explain the commotion outside the bonds of self synergy, benevolent jurors of fate. I neither prescribe nor object. I’m am not a mender of fences or an open range dilettante seething anecdotal water over a cliff tribute hologram. I hide in the tall grass. I backpeddle through the ancient marsh. I stab the silver coin on the buccaneer’s lapel and challenge the boxer’s glove with the sling of ecumenical dispersion of hindsight reminders. I see the often neglected rhyme in sawdust footprints. The boot of the dead, mad, russian roulet fighter serves the same purpose as if it we’re on the foot of the soldier of fortune who climbs to the summit and twists his sword to the enemy below. Transpire and regress. Inspire and digest. Early morning and sunset. The rabbit runs, as it is its nature. So be it. – Sinz
