twelve women approach the table, & the host is vaguely
lecherous but affable, for consistency, & fluent in questions that
have no answer. I mean the host is good at probing at voids,
& eleven women are sitting at a square table, & this time the
table is just a rock in Byzantium, or another city where the
conversion was long.
- they, all nine of them, sit in a classroom full of blood, & the
host asks them a question about vectors. this is like jeopardy,
remember. just without the alphabet.
- the game goes that seven women share a rock, & the show is
basically the sound rāāh, four women in a kitchen like
it’s an act of god, or an equation.
- we decibel, we divide & multiply all the women we were
excised from, all the women disappeared at the square table
yesterday. the time comes back to us, is reprised.
- so, they subtract, compute, tally their feet, & all they are asked
is the length of their name. & the show is basically the sound
rāāh, like allowing your mouth to fall open without Byzantium
or Boston falling in. the game goes that forty women are
straddling the sitting room, this time completely awake, & not
blinking, even for platelets,
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                                                             mizna, 2021