my ideal reader

my ideal reader is far 
from ideal. Some
Frankenstein 
assemblage
of parts
whole souls 
who once were real
- but they can't be like
this! Some jumbled 
up heads hearts panties
in butts 

- it's casual dress 
and address, I craft. 

What fits
an assortment
of mixed nuts,
fore and aft bolts
struck from heavens
to the platform held
elevated in the nethers
of a storm called patiently
down 'til it's done, just to
bring it to life. This thing 

that I think, pull, push
to write some. Write 

to only one? 

Or a mockery of life.
Just a mockup of sorts!
A mental target I emplace
to write at, to, for, or 
towards, at least. Or
around.

Within.

An abstraction
far more
than idealization.  

My abstract reader 
- quite distractable, spun 
in always one of all available 
directions, I find. So I fling 
from the cuff, whiz bam crack 
boom! Some sticks, some clicks 
some splats, gross, icks, some 

swoon. 

So I write
for the abstract one. 

If the ideal one is in there, 
too? sure! You're
the one, boo.