(There’s always an aleatory multiplicity that rumbles beneath any Apollinian order. There is no being, no thought, no theory that isn’t cobbled together from the materials one finds in her garage:  From the blog Larval Subjects)

We all add up to new creature
A DNA thing or idea on canvas
By grunge or a random splash,
Way we were born , mothered.

We are an aleatory bricolage
An amoeba with its false feet
Tentative in its fetal darkness
Where new shadows formed.

Shadows are real in a garage.
It is where we are assembled
And take on shape,new idea,
A bricolage cobbled together.
We are not  all original stuff.

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