reclining nude untangling a knot

I almost expected the drummer to fly off, as was the custom.
I was expecting absolutely nothing. Except...

There was a process, and it's lost.
Forgive how loose my limbs are after African tea.
People stare, they sip, and the circulation of air is just--through the smoke.
At the top of the stairs, atop a chest of sorts, I'm wearing a cape and I've got a pen.

How focused I was when I obliterated a tension and an immediate fate...
Who put this out? A range of faces, nerve-ending, receive mine the way I get theirs.
Towards finding out subjects to avoid and capturing rhythms for ensnaring.

Because I think contemporary poets the flimsiest link to a language with depth.
At least it's like this: You can't let the auto industry sit in your poem.

The sentences of Stein would have been a pleasure to type.

She drove a car and the car was opaque, it had a glimmer to it however and the glimmer ran off the paint to add to what was then only the best sort of opaque, purplish paint. The car was driven into a ditch that drove the car down, she kept it running an hour after without the use of her bad behavior. Have no where to run I see they've been running it. A little happenstance, scroungers round my ankles stabbing out at earth and that is the fun borne forth, how stakes of flesh now through a wooden carriage into a wood, sound strong Flintstones. So the sad days were there as of rock, considerations all bent against a rock, how is it that the feet are gone and one cannot expect to have ankles when? Good heavens Ms. Poultice is that the question.

And swerves back into badly broken, bleeding for it is not like this because bad cannot be. Great carriage for asking is it all only over, not to death that would not suit me. How can I help you with what sets you apart from them, dear? Went rollicking after larky, notebook crazy, chirrups cackling as in a land far apart and divided against a trope. Now and then they're here since they have bought cards. Who are they that they're married to barrel chests getting ice cream for beady eyes quipping drollery when the snuff's asleep, they say visiting the grave of whom, whose keys are igniting?