Finishing a . . .

I’m beginning to think in 140 characters
like a post modern breath — I can’t

Complete whole sentences. I am a thought
finisher, a program drifter

I’m adding letters to words that don’t
belong, as if I’m writing the world’s

But you’ll see meaning in the moon
and ponder the warmth of craters.

I could craft the answer green, between
level headed miscreants who abuse gasoline
rags filled with the propane that was caught by
a dreaming web of cotton, that white
supernova of unfinished string.

A thread that does not connect.

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