language as a framing device.

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Traffic in the morning, tells the story of a species in love with gambling.
I would rather stay at home watching the song go by.
Rambling and disoriented, as much a victim as I have nothing to say.
So I make clean sentences trying to organize the associations of another day.
A collage of repercussions, fear, and sincerity. Alternating as black and white cross-hatching
Where is the music in the language? The melody of the rhyme?
A short statement in prose in the promise of it's kind.
Poetry is in between word though it never rereads the same.
I am content to be a variation in the age of information loss.
an old fashioned dandy addicted wordplay for its sake (and on its own terms)
that wishes granted are in the very least are here so I can love language as a framing device.

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