out of three or thirds

[three hundred, twenty-one]

hundreds more were there inverted noises they come from inside,
and we laughed a lot then, through our noses mostly so that
in the middle everyone could've heard us, squeeling with bliss
but there isn't anything in the center, our pastries come hollow,
our balloons deflated, our machinery mechanics flanked with water
not batteries,
the preparation fleets us, and so we take to laughter,
we take to shrills, sometimes, shrill or squelching,
indeterminate hopeless, womb-less laughter, eyes tight with fingers,
fingers pressed to the sky like salutes for a higher seeing
someone who could have prepared, brought up, caught up the world,
and we still sit and laugh, unpack our baskets (which came empty)
and are now full of laundry, linens caked with headlines from journals,
stating the latest news here-by declarations of insanity,
or injustice,
or wrong-doings, negativity blaming the world for their doings,
no guided path, no tomorrow day, no now now never not now,
because there are things inside sometimes, but nothing is ever with us
from the start, or from before the start,
un-womb-like, irrefutable pricelessness due to lack of...
of... anything. Just lack. There is nothing, but, lack.

focus: I started with baskets,...?

Jess :]