We are apposed
No matter what the TV head says
Sometimes by no more than a wrapped candy
Sometimes by entire place names on a map
A box of trivial nothings
A chest or previously kist
And then we are kids again
I on the inside of a geometric dome
You walking in slow motion with wind effect
Why do you do that?
And how do you get the wind to abide?
Never no matter
You could drop your books a million times
Forget your lunch
Or break your paper maché man with top hat
It wouldn't matter
We would be apposed
Diametrically they say
Although I must admit
I feel as though that connects us forever
Like a spoke on a wheel
Inside a Minsk forest from the eye of a bird
But it was just a collection of years
That happened
Between the building of one spoke
And the path to the other
That leaves us
Hanging
In space
Like a midriff top
On a monchichi
And yet better that way
Because the TV says we can't get old
But believe me it's the best part
Because disintegrating
Is the closest we will come
To being whole again
Leave your chin, I say
And the pebbles in your belly
There is purpose in that penchant
If for nothing else but to tell a story
A certain slant
A sidewalk that triangulates
Schoolyards everywhere
Making notes obsolete
As we unglue our feet
From the spin we are in
And try to head-butt Sputnik
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