The land is full of places;

every square millimeter is a place;

and every billionth of such is a place,

and it doesn't end there;

it doesn't end

But surely it feels good

to hear about Västra Götaland

and the entitre North Northbothnia!

The body, that jester,

is also a collective term

for something trying to be you,

but is an unpredictable swarm

No wonder one feels fragmented!

Threats & Violence

are just gusts in a storm that never begins or ends

Membership details and media reports

are like ear canal eczema,

and war is a desperately clumsy performance

of Das wohltemperierte Clavier

on a gritty gravel organ

A horse clatters in its echo down the hill

on a pale spring evening,

but the lion's share of all that happens

fits

in the sound of sand & pebbles poured

over upside-down gingerbread tin lids

in old science fiction literature

that neither Robert A. Heinlein nor Olaf Stapledon wrote;

never nominated for the Luigi Russolo Award

Hearing impairments stand all-eared in bird droppings

inside an old barn's nephropathia epidemic-ridden dust storage,

daylight seeping quantum-problematic

through the sparse cracks in the boards

I sustain an impossible situation

in graphene-thin equilibrism

by keeping the sky airy in one direction,

and then in another,

a thousand kilometers away,

connected via a rickety railway

and a row of malodorous, creaky, unenlightened beast transports

How long can one live

in the final photograph of August Strindberg

without revealing oneself?

Courtesy gets you nowhere