Mercury is retro and no one will understand this anyway, so here goes. 

Three Fingers, Four Plaid Shorts, and Counting

A plank of wood. With a round hole cut out. And two matchy circles each side for ears. A face. The nth male to present his 2D self. From the mouth escapes a stream of toxic waste. I'm seeing it and thereby affirming it. Some contract earlier made has brought me here.

I stepped into my cheering section. Thus I now see from the most luscious plank-not plank, in my rearview mirror: Concern; nerves; more nerves. I'm a phat fish slithering through fingers. By whose carelessness or other lack? About as relevant as Rumi said. I'm talking about the field.

I slime into my shadow. Teacher said to go, and so. I am loved for this. And my fleshly housing. And my force. Thank you Don Miguel. Cheshire Cat smile too. A toothy grin lives forever, somewhere.

Once electric I turned to see. Couple more times likewise but more mellow. Surprised into my own spirit. The Great Swirl works in this way. I don't want it this way. I want more of it this way. I want whatever I have.

It's electric and sheer and regular and lite beer-style and I'm seeking. The deep, rich--no not pecuniary. The wide humble embrace that can meet and match. Receives this bunt and thereby affirms it. Happenstance at the first. Chooses it at the second. And the rest.

With thanks to my (mercury filling spilled?) sick molar