What I have here is not communicable though Pound said syntax, for some, is creed.  Suffering begins in the womb or before because your mother was unhappy, too.  Eventually, or in this fourth line, mirrors strike and withhold their reflections.  All the people who have come back -- it doesn't make death sound good.  I color my hair a shade this side of corn. Is that inviting?  The chairs are coming.  You can find a dozen ways to organize things till your closets turn capricious.  In the new war to end all wars which were supposed to have been ended by others wars held out back loud music offers up a style.  After a million deaths perhaps you should concede.  Across America the swarthy worry.  Wire loses its conduction.  Then English demands to be spoken in German.  My little bottom to smack.  I fear for the future of verbs (though into the spirit of things I jump).  As to the future of any future I'll introduce some terms now that I won't use later.  Watch me.  I hold the world in the nail of my left thumb as the sign points inward to the place of no exit.  At the end, the one moment of my life when you're neither there nor I.  Tired of reading the tea leaves, Mammy.  If not the chair itself the idea of chair, coming. Join me in the maze I made from which we'll never escape.  Someone outside tell us when we're done.  Where is outside, exactly?

Ian Randall Wilson