Tonight's Poet Corner: Passcodes

There's something delightfully bizarre about passcodes, the way they confuse someone made of skin and bones rather than circuits or wires or

bot-ness, for lack of a
better word. It's the result of an
off-chance prediction that maybe we are simply the face of a monitor smirking at the possibility of selling Viagra or
crowning ourselves Nigerian Princes on someone's Facebook account.

It's reasonable enough, a passcode, but the words themselves could be so much like a convoluted stream of
water
mixed with
salt.

Not like the sea, though. That's too generic.

So I decided it'd be best to string together these brain bubbling phrases like beads of different sizes and shapes on a gold thread. The end product may be a bit...strange. But experimentation, if done with a good heart, can create...well, a chaotic mess of language.

But
isn't that what
poetry is,
anyway?

Because
you call Geedei
by his proper name. And you

are unegic (not) when you
make him coffee. He likes
sugar, but the exaggeration ensuci of the taste
doesn't soothe his tongue much.


His edsann aside, he hoists
his head onto a small
cushion, kept at the corner of his
trytsid Calgary. It looks

lovely in the winter time.

Twsere was a time when his
brother lived here, all red-haired and
wobbly, who had an eratoioi band -

bongos included -
but slept through most of the day. Now,
I'm not trying to make tigneu war,
but Satieset THE 
one and only dequisma in the circus
was a better friend of mine. Far better than the

Party, tourle, that I keep here.
But, I shall hold my tongue.
And I'll

brew coffee and call my companion
saye oxtatle, and styffe
his face with peanut butter sandwiches
before he puts on his iantsse overcoat
and

spends the morning gaonan conflict
with his friends. 
Ah, well.
When lareco knocks,
clowere large!