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I jazz to my brain-bop, a personal rhythm.
The percussion prattle that swells the walls
out and in like a jellyfish-
No—seven 'til your ears fill with interstellar interstellar
or something they sing to the heavens
or something they pound into the ground with a thousand gravel throats.
I sway to the rhythm of my walk-sidle
though the sidewalk's cracked and
swelling with roots,
shoots and tubers growing unchecked—
Can I get a gardener? Sir, your assistance unnerves me, go.
Must- I stumble-
map this path? or is it even possible
To believe in several gods is to greedily orb orb orb
Two faces, no seven.
I counted eleven!
It was the cymbals
swelling my brain-walls like a jelly
and I don't have a map, nor a thumbnail, or even moss on a tree.