7 mama's not gonna names & make it all bougy Flaubert's Madame Parrot & shit (& that "7" at the start of this should be an ampersand but mama's too avant-garde to change it , yo)... but mama's been told by some higher-ups somewheres in some kind of towers that her writing's too avant-garde for her to be the teacher of the short stories.
mama walks down staircases to get into her classes
as mama walks down staircases she fragm ents into woodeny slabs
these slabs do not slinky down; they rough-hewn their asses down
mama leaves avant-garde splinters in her wake she is so cubist, yo
mama really wanted to be a fauvist but robert smith took all the day-glo & he wouldn't let her on that bus
mama had to settle for the slow dignified shuffling of wooden cubes
mama wants to say somethings about trajectories: the inverse of MFA narrative arcs and shit but mama's still descending descending & there is no meaning to be found in a stairwell & there is no meaning to being found in wood
timber-limbs are heavy; mama's wooden-tired
she is the cubist ballerina she would pirouette if she had toes, yo.