/ RHYME TIME \

Winking stars mate on suburb eves, hanging in chains. Clocks will flip out past midnight, but already firecrackers pop. Wool socks, and feet begin to thaw. Vagrant

thoughts.

If we are black and I call you nigger, it might be OK. But if I'm white and you're not, the N word, same word, becomes racist, maybe. Depends on what someone thought I meant.

Words are fiction to some degree. The water that will not flow uphill starts where, exactly? How do we get there?

In related keys the contents of consciousness draw on harmonies from distant seas. The Sultan's saddle bobs desultory topics from mind to mind, making a mimicry of moods. It gets pretty far out. How do we know?

Bring in tenant/landlord relations or sexism/accusations or capitalist/pigism and knowledge becomes certain. It's right there on the shelf, ready to ship.

Lately the dry weather meant static hair rising on spare the air days. See how it bristles at just the mention of ambient things, opinions stored in woodsheds, held in until reaching the outhouse. Way far out.

There are some things best left unsaid, or god is dead. Or the taboo becomes a tattoo. Scarce knowledge is skin deep, but you know what? I'm not losing any sleep.

Let the firecrackers leap. If the shoe fits, it's a self-selected fashion.

.