… [nameless]

: we are wondrous electric tree flowers
that already bloomed and plummeted
into the wet mast below where we
swap recipes for poison and
unmissable artistic fashions
boiled down to business cards
with gloating addresses marked in boughs branches burrs bright blossoms

         as we rot
               and dribble
            on each other from out
                          our holes,

                   or meet
                           w others, to
                confirm none has foggiest id|ea

        a stack of tone
          down some spillway

total certainty, of being totally ruined
by total flashlightenment
about total revelation of
total uncertainty, and total ruin,
due to total certainty, of being

and because we have minds,
thinking is difficult
and can get in the way
of cropping nature till it fits
in our cruddy atomic envelopes,

meantime mindsre still good for
swapping their inability to much
save paint meditative grey fog murals
with the garbage bags of clothes
the dead leave behind.

these can be used to block
the view of the others
or construct it if they
didnt have one, whatever.

    in them, we fall
              out of

          and slowly advance, through the single
                 proper, unspeakable
                      white worm of static
                      that is ours.