this is a poem [that doesn't have an ending]

. . . crowdsourcing final lines . . .

cold hard transcendance


transcendance as action. setting the table
with bowls of whole grain transcendance

let us consider what is never not happening

total loss farm
celery wine
paraprimitive


with names one should know where to stop
but it rests thinly

action expressing its own fullness
in a draft toward the most voracious fire

trying to bite the teeth with the teeth

when you itch the oil it spreads
violet to one side and gold to the other