Today, I will tell you a really long story. No one knows where it began. There are details to tell your senses which parts you have heard before.
So, this is how I know I knew it, it but feel free to add whatever I’ve left out.
Once upon a time there was a story with no beginning and no end. It broke all the rules of music and learning curves: there was no crescendo and no bell. Syntax had it noned it to death. It was laying and lying to itself about what an idea was.
Is or could be
besides what IS punctuation?
Mean to our story.
Told it to go home when it had none.
Told it to stop or go or pause or flow
Punctuation was very bossy.
Then on the eighth day there was poetry.
Admittedly, poetry is a woman.
She believed in our story.
She tried her hand at most everything the story had to offer.
She was right about everyone
but everyone is not a story
Fill in the blank
Between this line you thought
To find only
You’d been before
But never had yet.
Back then it was called a vacation
They were there and no one else
Alone at the first parade they’d ever seen
They were floating
Ingrained with an
Following trains that hadn’t met track
Metal on metal
Gritting to hault, they fell
Pavement was refreshing. Compared to sound that pierced
The gaps of wounds
No one knew about the eighth day
No one else was there yet, anyway
So back to our story