people listen as you strum a guitar of an evening they

hover amidst back-yards & trellis

plants they are ambiguous eavesdroppers so you spurn ideas

all good ideas that is because

the idea plays you like an average to good poker hand it is slippery

there are irregular rhythms

& rambling poetic vocals massaging your unstable ‘self’

the idea has you & just maybe

people are informed are well-read are paratactic as they

leap from intention to

emotion only this don’t have no mojo like

other faux-phrases slipping you up falling further out of

the catchment falling out of you &

the idea goes further the slip making your riffs mud even the

dry weeds get slippery while people yell

you don’t have to catch the idea, not anymore you loser

& here thankfully two phones

ring a microsecond after each other like a delay pedal this

truth within coincidence forcing

thought forcing an end that might parallel death if not for the

breathing the beat of something

necessary

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