ShOrt miNd oN a FaSt MarCh

it was there, before the start, before being recorded as a truth decorum, that didn't happen, and did or could be a more-or-less unceremonious pain that happened, with an air of pre-planned hair cuttings, firmly planted shelter systems and furniture copulation quick-dry cement, in the works by numbers, by the thought process, to an obligatory sea full of abundant entities including; sea horses of different color, isolated with nothing else to do in vast vistas of three clicks of a heel grand rapids, close to a thousand islands and ripley's believe-it-or-not-wax-museum, which never showed a single sea horse, that stood on the everything stock pile, that was given sticking point names and points for security check points with each and every noun, in a process, similar to sinking the bismarck, or the last supper, or lesser demarcation bay of pigs interlude, between vietnam and that korean oasis moving parallel machine, on the quarter hour propaganda for feeding, just before nap time, or within ocean’s reach of cream corn and overcooked meat monday through thursdays, but never on fishstickfridays with those special behind the gym cheap bus motel rendezvous. again, alone on a deserted barber chair marking those all inclusive projection for futurist moving in an idle atmosphere; where a guide dog takes everyone to the outer edge of the known and/or unknown snapped back universe, between dentistry and detergent, to or-or compulsion fastidious roundabouts; progressing through penal codes, true-false conclusions, hat and tie testing, this is your weapon, this is your gun in the name of “I” holy sickness and normal health parking lots for reused harbingers and cast lot pointers, that change that could be cloud nine from planet nine on a single sheet of plain blank white paper, tangled message or the messenger that became the “if nothing else fails,” single doppler on a double decker marriage blood test overcoat, master’s and bachelor's and master's master undercoat, but not yet, and still the midwest mayonnaise roustabout, curtailing deep fried southern everything as faraway faraday from there-to-here; which could be eternity, punctuated before a drunken stupor, which could wretch a wrench from a ratchet, which is not phillips, which cuts best in macarthur’s modus operandi: I shall return, I shall return or just fade away in irony snow, of never more and never more waits to signal the stopwatch checkpoint procreator with a return to sender love letter.