After Hypnotized Dzina's Like it Matters
It is not outside
within an unblanked
“And ink delves?”
—what wasn’t rhetorical in this Quineauesque
production: licking, saucy, underlying Cotton’s
Matter, a substance. Chops.
Poetry got spendy.
Lovers may be paid by removal,
“I” says the page “am not prim.”
To which Ink replies: “Striptease?
strip poker? Speak easy
In your zero-sum style, but don’t
give it away.”
In the velodrome of writing prompts, I’d prefer
to hand out velamints. Anyone for cinnamon?
This is what was left in her grandmother’s mink coat.
Not some note, some noteworthy letter, embossed,
wax sealed. We are all of us going
nowhere-everywhichway. X-potentiated, the genome
is flawed, an eternal repetition
“Form alone gives me the slip.”
“Poor paper, stuffed properly
into the envelope—‘n’ off you go!”
Pink imaginary ellipsis
no longer semi-fluid material.
I am down to the letter Y. I knows
U, knows U are over and beyond X.
Try? Trail? Even a plume
can do me better.