To read is to err. The joke—mmm, perhaps there. Maybe you’re drawn to the line, a promise, a breath held-
spaced out-
too long. But here it lay. Your eyes move, dutiful, grazing
the terms,
the conditions,
-THE-
reality; plastic clattering, clacking modernity. The killing keys center the stage, perform their allusion.
You wanted something, now you're here.
But, so it is. “That’s just showbiz,” someone says, parroters' conviction.

What comes next is not so much—but it’s said, "better to reframe than complain." Once, there was a look
A hook.
Even a Book.
But silence screamed loudly now, "nothing is written." And minds erupt, invisible. The line
remains
untyped

---

but unions itself with something you almost remember.
"Close enough."
Going on. Yes, we forgot the comma. Standing on the period, we shout down the end of the sentence.

Call it a poem. A stanza. A haiku. What’s it to you?

Let me tell you something—it’s frightening.

Boo. The curtain pulls in the dark.
Hark, what is that?
"Some dead vernacular, asshat."
Thee, thy, thine,
o'chopped syllables, we pine.

Another tossed salad
to words.

Eat what you like.
Digesting desire
is gone
masticated
what you want
is not advised
it can't be televised
latest thing's a beam
pegging what you stream.