on any heart

on any canvas of art

that's convenient

within reach

wiggling worming

in constant motion

a contortion struggling

struggling contortion

worm art womr

metamorwfosing

through the great apple

then eve

onto the pavement

those artsy clingy stretchables

hooked on the latest thingtone

munching art

so the worlds oldest painting found

in syria resembles the modern masters

but who considers worms mingling

larvae mosaics

those plumming jacksons

drunk on new earth air

sad stiff pumpkin bread

bakes in the oven

a new art for stale old...

get out of the granny shoes

and dance barefully in the

foot of life then you are

a true worm not a false

worm moan woman

give birth to

let it come forth

from your navel this

time umbilically strong

and more than writhing

across bored paper

become art

maggots

exponentially

exploding into

flies

sticking to

fly paper

infesting holes

of corpses

sucking up

dead color-coded

juices

like caterpillars

writhing into moths

or becoming

butterflies

sucking up caterpillars

becoming bound like

solid old books

crashing seventy cubits

from a fly papered

(hic)

sealing

of some kind

of wax

of some kind

of wane

on some kind of mmmmm...

and find you have become

a lovely lunar

moth

until fat with meaning, implication
bending the broad leaf shade of the masters
digesting papyrus and wood
making paper and song
then stories in keystrokes
then long oratories
electrified and measured in spaces and gaps
clapped like switches or lights
dividing discrete thoughts
stirred into hues and saturated
broadcasted to the billion eyes
the bright spirit of conception
spouting from the stone of the fountain
the solid arcs of energy and flow
unknown from their source
unrecognized from their origins
their earthy wombs rejoice
having birthed their tiny apathies
and watched them each become a god.