The idle thoughts before they are cast into turgid posts.
Fragment of a paper found on the sidewalk.
… industrial poet is unrecognized in a room of hairy earth drummers. IP says, “Raising warm China to my lips / aroma of African beans / steeped in Fijian water” while thinking the only thing real is being here, now, in California the rising sun orangely filling the cloud bound sky. Meanwhile the only thing real is my fingers are not even tapping, and I consider what might beauty be in steel ingots. To those still banging stones together, how much time is wasted revealing an emerging art of humanity?