On relative matters that concern not even the porch hound’s dreams of incoherent
cultivations of tempest’s diatribes on inculcate trespassers of the grass rooted in the surounds
of manifest Eden, that noble pretense of futile accomplishment coveted as success
in society’s delirium of thought process, I must excuse my absolute neglect in opening
the gate to the leoperd’s paw of distracted intent. Do I instruct the turtle to come up for air?
Ha! I know the books of children’s rhymes, friends of this chosen palate,
the guise I volute to sneak under the water’s mist. Give me the Tristan’s fist of sand,
the orator of ambrosia. I say but little chimes. To Isobar I speak my indolence, my omnimnity.
I am not bewildered, but fascinated by my inept repitude of karmic fortune for not having the
slightest earthly clue as to the intricacy of “who done it, and why”.- Sinz