I am a concreter.
A builder,
a constructor of edifice;
yet my architecture is
not really concrete,
so to speak.

For I articulate
scribed and uttered bricks,
mortaring them together
with blood, sweat and tears,
the emulsifiers of emotion and effort expended.

Congealing all the grittiness
of the raw material mess
in my head;
stirring, stirring,
churning
like a mixer truck load
of thought, sensation and experience;

Pouring it all out
around, between and about
each carefully selected
piece:
words+sounds+syllables+phrases,
rhythmed and rhymed,
positioned in time;
solidified
with intention
to craft my construction:

Embodied imagination,
fixing fugitive
thought into tangibility;
abstract
made concrete,
so to speak.

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