I just like inventing new schisms

I am culling possibility from the fog
I am spieling for the spirochetes of possibility
I am interested in being amazed
I find my wonder relayed
I am engineering koans
A series of delicate koans

Turbines of delicate koans
Koans are engines, you know
They power the hopes and dreams
And make mincepie of the mind
They make mincemind of the meat
Oh, my mincemeat mind
My mind cranked out of a grinder
My mind spins like an anemometer
My mind spun about in the weather

I'm not speaking to the spirochetes of possibility
I'm mincing the gas of imminent wonder
Smooth as monk, they said
The whitegas of the moon
An iron white night, a buttery night
In the midnight sun at Leningrad
I'm masking the gas of an imminent sun
The sun looks out like a face through a gasmask
Poor poor industrial revolution
Every world suffers an industrial revolution
The sticks and stones of industrial koans

John and Spiro Keats
Eating breakfast every morning
Poets have viral minds
Buzzing with pozzibilities
Fuzzy with possibility
Like something covered with flies
Like something covered in tiny flies
They're funny and furry that way
They must infect you with their ideas
You are the vector for their ideas

We are the vectors for others ideas
Only the ideas are real; we are not.
We're big fat bags of crazy ideas
We're big fat bugs of crazy ideas
Lazy umbrellas for crazy ideas
Big fat bags of crazy old ladies