bRAND nEW tEN-sPEED*

I think in catchalls, in ergative whooplas, an unwilling wilfulness. I insist on nothing, and feel much the better for it; as was I to insist on anything, anything at all, my insistence would fall on deafened ears, my own, a caudal of stirrups and cones, flutes and bone spurs, a ploughshare of transitive’s and intransitive transitive’s, a trans-verbal Begonia compote. Perhaps sleep will help dull the chattering in the landscape of my head; perhaps not. Perhaps nothing will; perhaps everything will, a ploughshare of this and that, a caudal of trans-verbal intransitive’s, a creel-bag full to brimming with stones and fluke bones, an insistence on insisting. Nothing: not an iota or a mote, not a mustard poultice or a brand new ten-speed, nothing.