Every jot recorded.
Selected by self,
game sharpened,
at helium for lunch. Troubled ambition, mediocre
passings, life becomes esoteria.
To have subsumed existence,
to have fallen for memories,
at Love by magic—
burning incense.
Every jot recorded—
if to determine his lies—
a laugh at the expenses. Dedicated. Submission to
letters, many combinations, to have sprouted over soil.
Are we coherent?
I ask as time suffers;
I conclude as clouds dissipate.
Most gracious wines, so pressed to appear, with
newness causing nostalgia, and biology might trigger attraction.
The chesswoman, generous machination, operating by
intuition, fueled by devious elements:
every jot recorded.
I dilute meaning, if to contain temperaments, wondering
what world has all Pisces. Machete intellect,
scholar driven,
too wise for mere
knowledge.
