from wi-phi

It's been a bit slow in the March of steno-script-etry, so I'd like to share a poem from a procedural series in which either Pi or the Fibonacci sequence dictate the word length or syllable count, know as piems or fibs respectively. This is fib number forty-one. Fibonacci and Pi are also characters, in love, and playing each other in chess, specifically, variations on Reti's end-game study of 1921, white to move and draw.

41 fib
53316291173 86267571272

There’s a mirror
called wisdom
that reflects
all
except who’s looking in
spilling
like water from a broken clay pot
clouds
drift
fingerprints on handled glass
wiped away

I want nothing of this wisdom
that I already know
that knife
that glints off of borrowed light
and cutting so goes
the shadow through throats of birds
sparks
falling
like branches being covered
by sand


l'aro

week one of steno-voice-ography

This bolting

That I shall report. Sorry route
contractors. We’ll be done five
years. The nearest he did. Hello.
Yep, foliage Horton over longer
plans. Our and I’m Anne Hope.
So ground level

I went to the river to roll down
the window calling all the time.
Calling all the time and where.
Have you gone. Where have you
gone baseball hero. I feel industry
tonight. See you on the move
and this is that fallen down on your
head, and Zack room and where
are you. Baseball hero. Where are
you. Has been repaired taken you
has the vicinity. Can you

The sun to close the shell blowing
the ball or you're really dark past
of snow there is goes there we go.
Dan with Prince making spaces.

I want to say only the day right by
the window are shadows of what
we can, and the breeze seeing down
the side of the for, and see
great thing this.