When you see the clarity of a future horizon
Turn quietly into the thick bush.
The more elegant response is the one that wiggles
Slipping from grasping anxiety, avoiding clean edges
Time brings a way through the impossible
But it oozes, slimey
By the twisty
The tangents, detours,
The curly pockets of crud and life.
The clear path is itself a warning.
-- trimmed and tucked by Procrustian impulses of industrial habit.
Find the vital tangle of broken lines and crags-
a fest of possibility in the festering
Societies of ideas
stinky bellybuttons have more to offer the scouts now
than a thousand articles of strategic analysis.
Weird dreams, untidied
sing the airy maps
So they will not be found ...
By the ones looking for management.
And numbers will mock their lovers.
Memories are rioting against reason.
The future wont fit into the fear of rotting.
It is the green fur itself
The future is kinkier than we thought.