45*21

in some spaces, divine or otherwise
we'll call this a floater holiday
because we've got no where to go
to escape such mediocrity
now that's the challenge isn't it
looking for the way out of the thing that serves
except to numb the senses
leave you inert
leave you with no thing to act upon
dull the senses
keep no one guessing
it is a tumble
it takes forever
and when you notice nothing
you bob up and down
and they know it's gotten you
I guaranty there is not in between nothing
it is the may pole
the strangulation of senses
the ripening of the apple
the rotting of the core