( nonsensical un-poems made of onomatopoeia. )

( just the one. )

( The Craftsman - a short story )

The crowd is shuffling along, praise be to the army who had impeded upon my progress. On either side of me, feet; before me multitudes of feet racing one another, the first quickly overtaking the next, and so on; down the pavements, up flights of steps, into and out of buildings.

No one notices the stragglers left behind - they who bet on themselves finding and overtaking the first pair of feet - as they are once more conquered by the army from behind them. The same happens in every direction.

These never-tiring legions of feet, finding their destination but never staying long enough to revere in their victories of having arrived, soon move along. And no one gets enough of watching these disorderly processions stream from place to place.

Then, as though truly attracted by the sight, I follow behind them, at first slowly, then overtaking the first, and the next, and so on.

But the last stragglers have already turned away. They are now standing still, waiting at a bus-stop.

Dolls possess little or no wish to be understood; yet are invariably pleasing to the first glance; whom, as they appear, in a way, are cat-like in behavior.

Such is the case I add care to my endeavors to conduct my presence away from their lot, and should I be noticed in the strangeness of my appearance by accident I hasten to pull askance a smile, look fleetingly into their pretty faces, hurry along and think to myself: how beautiful those feral beasts are.

True to form, they burst into giggles.

Dolls, how should I understand you when you are giggling at everything.