Signage

1. The population was in danger

2. Sign forecast the grim reality of the situation

3. But it was a bank holiday, so things could wait

Are everywhere

Ninjas

whole's bard; barred holes

the spore of aging thymus lands and humps of consequential assuage, well, them digs wouldn't coffer a heap of likely, hoods, cloaks, and coverslips not withstanding, all out and out you were (we weren't) for a day's debriefing, a longing, a lowing, a mining murk amid scalloping clouds, this day with her or his or its gentle hum to the bristle and a pew therein to sits the eats (stomach's full), and the i's over u's under towed and lush, imagined coughing, stammer-stares, or the busloads of day-off, old, sullied and forlorn, save for a libel suit or corn starch hamper, hemmed din, chattering whorls, a squirm or two, acorn-toothed, leafing and fabled, wrinkled perhaps, taking on jobs like soldering or becoming a cabbie or a dashing-type, an every which way kind of guy, unfettered, hardly perturbed by the doughy justification of cosmic lances or cartoonish fonts, the under-typed scores for footnotes bespoke, an idea contrariwise to the next research-able tree, spree, or a leeward gaze, of a kind not exactly spritely, nor hairy eyed, and while as stark as these subjects were, I mean, whistling though it was (that kind of day) I farted a whole lot whilst on the meditative "thing", and goodly though it was, one couldn't tamper with the day, nor take mecca tantrum and hide respite (the why-way (my-way, hi-way, and so forth) so slung singing), and brazen and brandished (the legs do you well, my friend, what length!), what for better than? to etch a state of framing the siting, mind seats (it's real) and, as a reality nod, go garish, garnished, and logged, greedily one takes it all it in (I did my best), (to not be a hog)

acquisition accidental: for Richard Long

today's inanity and/or found poem

it's lonely at the naught

A curious worst ten would rely on there being ten things to say about something. A poem might involve taking a deep breath. A song would have her twins go running amok and adding stapled ads to bits of bonfire charcoal that still have their predecessor's nails hammered toothily therein. And then where, one might inquire, where for the third? Perhaps a bathroom, tucked into a third-rate culturally despondent town, somewhere where only wines are bragged about among couples that bend over and over each other's ends while out and about galavanting at parties, trying, wearing their wits like chest plates, shining to the brim and also, admittedly, daringly clever, yet, insufferable (to boot), as boring as trigonometry, this oneupmanship to sort out who will be the next street artist to publish or which arabian peninsula it should would or could be, in their jurisdiction and as long as someone else does it, to raid. As fourths go, imagine yourself in fourth place in a three-legged race, with only two competitors. When it's fifth, the soothing said would be only the railing you click, as when you walk by, with a stick or a prod, preferably not electrified, but resonant enough to remember and later write about in the form of a surrealist's languor, colored blue, stinging of hot something-something, a clangor so mentionable that the thought of it brings a sheen to the bicuspids, making one salivate for meat or some hapless prey, by the highway, branch clenched in one's talons, watching, raptor-like. For the sixth entry, envisage fur, everywhere, on the snow, on our arms, at the end of each street lamp, like hairy globes, warmly wrapped, and bold, orange, donging like a heavy-set man's jowls, going anywhere but here. Next up: eight is enough. For nines, penultimate in heirs to thrones unspeakable, yet, like a wilderness effort, a trek if you will, over arches turned green from the passing of centuries and under trees, where there once was the brittle loam of nuclear fallout. A curious ten would be writing it out in multiples ending in zeros with the floe of ice jamming through, tender at first, as in a dribble, the burble over brass, pushed lovingly from easy-breeze fountains, like the kind you see in boutique stores; and then turning bout face, wrinkled and germanic, forceful and horny, shoving pushes into stampedes, measurements in cups, pints, quarts, and then gallons, all at once, and one for the road, tipped over. 

Found poem series (see twidder)