We’ve been experimenting with sound and syntax in my poetry workshop. I gave it a try on my own.
For Gertrude Stein, because, what is sense?

Flickering flames flatten firey fire. Jump, dance, sway like trees in summer breeze. Swish, swoosh. Leaves laugh loudly. Wick, Bick, click. Glass protects wax. Maple syrup air breathed like cooling pancakes. Sugar is as bad for you as snake venom. Ouch. Put plastic parts apart and sew your pants properly. Light show, light show. Dancing fluid, talking messages, Morse code, mice. Garbage piled up in kitchens with kittens crawling across linoleum floors. Toaster oven. Cheerios. Cabinets. Cooler.

Tired eyes. Red. Resting, closing, shutting, prying open shut with pliers plying. vision victory violins playing in pink cloud dreams dying to be noticed. Direct me to deep dreams, or not, because a dream is a dream, is not or not, is not, but is. Facts taught in black robes that probe into your back for answers. Don’t say a peep. Finger mouth found ways to fix. Problems only sometimes. Tick-tock. Time takes time. Patience pulls you under heart palpitations to bad places.