rant'o'rama

so what
if the shit I jot
doesn't speak your language
doesn't peak your gauges
and the dot
I spit
doesn't fly the most
tasteful of parables

I know what it is
and I know what it does
because I have
tasted the acid milk
of it's counterpoint craze
on my tongue
and felt the sharp edges
crash against the inner walls
of my sentient palace
searching for a loophole
or simply to smash open
a new door

so what
if you stare stumped
at my freewheeling words
unable to connect
unwilling to accept
that the reality of me
is through the looking glass
and beyond for you
and that I
when I read
is just as handicapped
as any insignificant other
and you

it is still not Utopia
no bloody Shangri-La
just a few dislocated notions
tossed out at random
in the deep vast abyss
that is your filter
along with the other's
interpretations

we all dive
and sink to the bottom
to be lost in the darkness
sometimes

and still
it's just me
and my three rows of keys

don't make
such a
big
deal
out of it