The whole project, the whole idea
wrapped in tight cubism;
not moving, neither movement nor stability,
or stable ideas running wild over tones;
the be sharp symphony number three to ten,
fashion blending wet with dead dreams
dancing up and tripping down hip-hop beats,
beating what was left to beat of game.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Poem-A-Day: Day 547
Cycle 27
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.