the report of the clickety-clack of the 102
matches the rapid firing of the well-scorned.
this match does not light
but resigns to require this retreat of the recluse:
TO HOWL AT THE HEAVENS ON HIGH!
TO BELLOW TO THE BOWLS BELOW!

[To you]
I expressively expound at the expanse exacted
betwixt extremes...
I am...unheard

I AM: a mute MIME at the SCHOOL for the BLIND.
I AM: a spring BREEZE at a HEIGHT beyond TREES.
I AM: a sealed ROSE beyond GLASS at a FLOR'S'.
I AM: a drenched CUP of clenched RAIN for the QUENCHED.

a haggard man upon a
        downward-downtown
                street:

I am veiled by wild gesticulation
hands tied by nonsensical articulation

"Come my partner, my dancing squirrel!
Fly and show me your freedom.
Come my good time, my playful robin!"

I sing; I shout.

[To me]
no eyes to hear
no ears to see

you refuse my rants
you walk across
to drink...or drunk (for I never know)
from the bag lady

see how her cart clinks!