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the Minutes

We dwelled

in one story. . .

a concept coerced into agreement


ongoing & incomplete,

this mash-up of styles,

is ruled & rigid

(constellations named, planets punctuating)

free & formless

(a stitch in time fabricated)

it’s a continuum

devoid of metaphor &

lacking nuance

–elliptical poem of all that’s imagined without imagery–

our universe

is cold

(and hot)


(and suffocating)

–expanding outward in

relentlessly onward trajectory,

moving forward toward backward

–it’s every word in every sense–

a journey unlettered

or littered

by sensical signs


of far-fetched angle

(0. 1. 0. 1.)

–simple &


the difference

a product

that to sum is a

force-fed “quota”


–and spelling–

all unknown fear.



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