hardly mulberry

I, dude, no I don’t mean
mulberry or city
slicker ranch; and we,

I really mean we
and not seaweed missing her
darling little r-tis-tree

or a cloud black or wool
squirming inside, insides
squirming, molten greens

turning into a bandit
conglomeration, or wood,
could twist into those

clever Brazilian
chasers of fashions,
eating innocent little

beans spat in darkest
thickest pitch, no seasoned
instructor to teach the basic

toad technique much less
the dogpaddle; but that they
are slippery may save a few;

so no I am no
mulberry, just another
dazed, lucky, lost little bean

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About Seeker of the surreal and the streamy

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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