“Break it up, you ninnies”

Thoughts have roots which colorlessly
feed on nothing, scramble into one another
indistinguishably down below when

suddenly, at once, at some strange
provocation only known to their inchoate
generative empty fibrous selves, they’ll

sometimes coalesce and rise and delve
into the most unlikely speculations – foster
odd associations which on average don’t

work out: today, for instance, comes a clumsy
but not unaffectionate ménage-à-trois:
two stupid lunk assumptions sandwiching

an anxious imputation bloom into bewilderment
before my eyes – which, used to similarly
unavailing combinations, are not in the least

surprised. Mismatched, they look to me
to offer them recourse: all that I can say is:
“Break it up, you ninnies, and divorce.”

.