open for the still stolen
shakes from others
remembering forgetting
hammering into existence
nailed to the continuous illogic
little booklets all over the place
father look at my technique
never mind didn't mean it
every word of it
and there it went I went
with the blended mirage
towards never ever coming
coming quite a bit
into the porcelain in the beginning
those that folded into thirds
flatten it what was said or meant
or not take it away to your
pile of dung what was dug
out of you out of me
by our by what was asked of us
I guess I guess again
not even close and then
the support the hanging down
between the legs
between the buildings closer
to each other and the ground
underground insects scratching
at the inside of your brain
loose teeth bending back
bending forward book-ending
thoughts for distorting sips
louder than the whispers
of meaningless nothings
just nothings all along
where is that log that timber
in the muddy lake
that rocked from side to side
arms burning in the Sun
underground insects scratching
at the inside of your brain
this mind between the buildings
closer to each other and the ground
- Max Stoltenberg
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