Poems without souls. Books without pages.

It was a day like any other day,  a book or poem is being written, squeezing the words in between the margins.   Neat little columns,  neither circumspect or remarkable.  The main character is dressed in black and white,  and with an eager pen misses the chirping insects and birds who toil in the background.  If we want to get to the end of the book,  then why don’t we just go there.    With terminal velocity we escape the confines of the ordinary,  only realizing later it was the ordinary that we sought.

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But back on our figurative earth we bypass the road signs.   The ones who insist that we yield to a certain direction. A joke happens when we understand that some of our directions revealed specks in our paint job or smudges on the canvas of our book.    The humor is baked in an oven of metaphors that contradict one another.     The yeast rises and the cake cools,  a new batch without any frosting.

And just as we are about ready to publish,  someone has eaten, the icing.

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