doggerel misstree why do i squander my words, casting them into an ocean to be lost, disregarded, trampled upon and sullied next to tripe that took only the thought to fly to fingers, no dramatic pauses where the mind quests, no struggling to find a word worthy of carrying a concept. i throw them like wreaths for the dead in a place where i will never see them again, that they can be swept out and away and will bring past the horizon all of the things that are useless, the little pains and little pasts. it twists like a fist, like a tough meal, that i cannot often bring myself to scratch deep into the clay, that i more often find myself sobbing out slick little trifles than building with pride an edifice that can withstand my own bellowing, that can take root in dusty soil and maintain. it twists like guilt that i pour out what i can because it is easier than going without, and i cannot even sob for the worlds i have killed with cheap words. 031226 ... flux we the dead may pull meaning from anywhere. a hegemony of homogeny. i've thrown my worlds away here for years, but even now, i find a few who carry the torch afresh. 031227 what's it to you? who go blather from