I shall rashly suggest (in the wake of finishing this in the early pre-dawn of a blizzardy February) that this may be my best work yet. By which I mean, I had a helluva good time entertaining it, that is, allowing it to entertain me. The video recitation, which is part of what I like to think makes this fly e'en through the snow, is, in fact, done in whispers - though stage whispers of the kind that should be audible. Do expect to kick up the volume, though, if it's annoyingly too soft.
By the time she’d trotted powerfully out to plant her ass
flat on the floor close to the safety of the southwest corner
blissfully to suck up through a giant straw inside a giant glass
half half-and-half, half cold sweet coffee – oh, to warn her
not to drink too much, whatever it might be! – is all you
wished to do and would have done had you been nearer.
But now, from her sly knowing eye you somehow also knew,
with not unwelcome certainty, it could not have been clearer
that you’d merely caught her in the act of drinking iced sweet
mellowed half of this and half of that: no more. Your view
had changed and oddly prospered from this cul-de-sac: neat
trick! this heretofore unknown blessed invitation to pursue,
pursue, look into, voyage through, the unsuspected blithering
and blandishment and random glories in a heavy down-pour
of the rest. You look around: the sky and ground are slithering
into another circumstance, a dancing fanciful romance: much
grandeur now arrives - more heads, which with yours number
ten. Six are yellow, three evince pink greenish-nesses such
as might be bound in and surrounded by fluidities of slumber
that you’re subtly kindly pressed to entertain will not so much
decree your destiny as be it. All this folderol! At last you see it.
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