Conduit

I'm my energy.

process is mechanical.

my observations are limited.

have you received messages? is the effect
restricted to temporal politics, like mountains
that ache for subject? I was ground to a picture
of resort, least minute. this is coincident, I do
believe. statements are made, and they are
everywhere. for instance: how and why are coloured
pictures that can be handed to friends. we all
have friends, and reports. I haven't seen wild
poems, in the reputed jungles, just plantations
and expectation. like you, I've laid back and
clocked. time and again, that is, but I donšt see
the best glory of that. who does, and will you be
resurgent forever? poems are a drag, multiplied by
explanation till the stars or our neighbours
become pretty moldy. times get that way, in our
period. I was not anointed, but drifted into
vocation. if claims are reasonable then why are
words so variable, whimsical, shading north and
south? I love a map of distinction, running here
to there. eventually my method will be told to go
home. I want that. I am trying to be straight, yet
I hop to and fro. doesn't the readership do the
same? questions are the practical side of me.
something is apparent in the seams, an odd repair
perhaps. my energy runs.