affecting aspects of human life, on a non-raining day, the predestinated pedestrians
peddling dope on a zebra crossing, pill-popping gossip gone by the wind
in wooden tone (wd intone): "The Bussibilleties Are Intinife." "The
Wrestling Nudes (men & women) Orgasized Into Searchable Flutter." (as if
this wd include molecular biology, genetics and embriology of the maxillo-facial
but HELL NO - it's not a matter of turning the feel-good factor into flesh
of the said Zebra, still st-t-tuttering in the selfsame wind, lest become glacial
or marrying an old man for his cash - A human e life is full of danger
if also besticles!) Indeed the festivalleties are starting to look good at this point
dolled up banstickles are gesticulating: ???? - a passer-by blows himself up
as one of them drives to the park, finds dead man. Hears sound, runs out
of roe but luckily meets a loud chatting pregnant single woman [crucial test
since I'm only Tolkin in Spingues now] who, alas, what the *&^!!###!~%))((??!!!", which
eyeball-aching mystery is exposed beneath the ballast pile? what fingers
now point back to it, to her, her history, his lack of history, the poem,
a Zebra Song, that spin-dried sliced us foot this summer - we flap in replica.
We flip in La Republica. Text-Dosing in Dallas. It's my mystery now. Yours.
day after day. and the eye s e y e s in our head s s e e the world spinnin g a r o u n d
i love it! but, sd I play it now, who'd höre mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen
Authors' Note. The poem was written in January 2007, using online correspondence, as an experiment in collaborative writing in second language.