All my categories are slouching
and sliding into swampy habits
nouns sucking all the action
out of the tidbits of my verbs
references and connections go
limp like old cabbage.
When a rule raises its head
out of the low organic mumbling
when a pattern gets too big
for its britches and won’t shut up
I have to humble them all and
cut them off at the syllable.
Put the feet up and relax
silence noisy hands and mouth
the truth of the day needs implicature
don’t speak if there is still doubt
if there is submit its deep structure
to the recursively henceforth.
My glass is fingered inexpressibly
almost noon and I am branching
my early transformations already
drunk and looking for munching
the late like passive and pruning
I have a hunch will percolate soon.