I’m coming closer to allowing
my thoughts their nature as
a fabricated, animated paisley.

At depths designed
and measureless, I roll
out days in meters, first
abstracted by desire, then
choosing, made attirable.

Because I am both tailor
and the maker of my sails,
I let the barnacles of
disconnected metaphor
attach their frisky selves
to whichever barge, canoe
or carpet takes their fancy.

I am we, and we are all,
by the grace of a grand
slipstream, traveling
for free;

and should I spy
a seahorse in the way
you curl away

convinced you’ve
joined the wingnuts of
predictable thinkers in a
bucket, growing colonies of
rust and backwardness, I shall
pay my respects to your iron age
ways and sail away, ignoring any urge
to acidify your jubilation, much less
suggest it’s time you grew to bronze.

And when my animated paisley,
as all patterned chaos will, attempts

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