You wait for nothing. Patient like the prairie enduring the burning I could be you. You could be me. I practice the burbling gurgle I'll use in my senility, dream of warm sheets wet with my own urine. Your stillness has encompassed my fervor. Schizophriniacs often rhyme because they have the time. A dime used to buy a line from me to you, but you don't answer the phone anymore and I don't think I'll call. Your casual grace sanctifies the electrodes. You become guileless God of the wires. I race with myself trying to catch up on my own possibilities. It jsut comes natural to some, others have to carefully balance the here and there, the here and now come up with with a sum of the lump that trips on my tongue. Hard words, hard work. Time and space melds into one who swallows tomorrow whole and spits up indiscrete moments. I want to fill myself up with your emptiness, sing your wordless song.