the glue holds the gutters in. the rhetoric's a loose-leaf apprentice.
Cracks in the oracular self I'm splitting open, splicing states of conscious-
ness onto what? Locomotive sound wings? A burnt rabbit in the trap &
a rabid set of number laws the numb part of me knuckles up to.
Tell it to the sludge, the oil slick, the slippage ousting us from Ollie-Ollie-
oxen-free central. I've got a drawer full of keys that bend by themselves.
Magic Realism, mute narration or just plain jack-in-the-box psychosis?