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.