"Nope.  Rubbish.  Too interdependent and self-begging.  How is anyone supposed to know what a 'brick' is if they don't know what a 'frwoa' is?  Perhaps the whole art of poetry is just plain useless for writing anything but a self-recursive lump of slop."
              For lack of anything better to think about, Skip thought about poetry some more.  He thought of wordplay and puns and incorrect grammar pawned off as radical innovation.  He thought of rhythm and rhyme and meter and metaphor.  He thought of the unseen intrinsic web of tapestry connections binding well-crafted poems together.  "Like a literary Jedi force," Skip might have said if the copyrighted term for "space cowboy" was worth the risk of thinking.  A force, a duct-taped spider web, an unseen puddle of literary gravities and symbolic strings and yarn and beams and boards without which any poem would fall to pointless pieces.  Pieces having as little intrinsic worth as a plain old boring old brick, valuable only in the hopes that someone else might come along and make something magnificent of them some day.
              "A poem is like a magnetic poetry set," Skip declared.  "Or rather, a poem composed with a magnetic poetry set, because it would be a pretty lazy poet to toss a bunch of random shit up on 
the fridge and call it art!"
              "Unless you're a skilled bullshitter and can fool everyone into thinking it was intentionally crafted!  Something you've certainly accomplished quite well today, I must say Skip!"
              Skip suddenly realized his train of thought had strayed so far from whatever it was he was originally thinking, that he'd stepped off both entirely into the strangest tot station he'd ever seen (or at least since the last time he thought he'd stepped into one).  On a station bench with his legs crossed on a high rail and hands folded behind his head was a very content and satisfied looking person.  A vague idea for a metaphor about a cat and a canary came to mind, but since Skip wasn't sure if it was his or not--and was already as confused as a newborn infant in a mid-life crisis support group--he got straight to the point this time.
              "Who the hell are you?"
              "Ha!  337 mots spent with the weight of the known universe on your back, fighting off the greatest artistic apocalypse to ever threaten Flutonia, and you haven't lost a gram of wit!  I must say, Skip, I can't remember a hearing of anyone in the history of Okuaka who could handle stress like that and still come out with flying colors!  As a phylor and a fan of your work to boot, I must say I'm impressed.  Why, I doubt even the great, mysterious phylor lost to the eternal winds of kuic myth who supposedly accomplished exactly what you did, except with near-total memory loss to boot, could have--  could have--  could--"
              " 'A deathly shadow swallowed the phylor's mirthful countenance as he realized Skip wasn't laughing, but just blankly frusing at him, whatever the hell "frusing" was.  The man himself even frused, even with the look of death-black anti-mirth already there which was actually impressive to begin with given that his utter psychic terror already seemed beyond the saturation point that a living being was capable of portraying in a single expression.  Then he just rudely stared at Skip some more.'  Was that any good?  I don't think I've tried that before.  It seemed to come natural, though, what do you what I just did, Mr. Phylor?"
              "Gods of hell and heaven and every lame deus ex machina plot twist dependent on some freak PTSD amnesia anomaly including Teri's in the first season of 24 and every episode of Doll House and every other scene of Memento backwards from the first!!  Are you--  are you--  please tell me you're not--  dear god, you're actually--"
              " 'Serious'?  I'm not even sure quite what the word means but I get the gut feeling it's the one you're looking for.  From your fumbling for it, might I suggest you try an audio program or vitamin supplement to help your memory?  I think Focus Factor is relatively inexpensive if you find the right street dealer.  I get the feeling it helped me once, but I can't seem to remember when that was.  Do you remember?"
              "Gods of Florbb.  Quick, what day is it!  No, what time is it!  What mot is it!?"
              "I--"
              "Right.  How the hell would you know?"
              " 'The man who'd called himself a phylor had the instinct to glance at his wrist watch, but, realizing there were two there, decided not to risk alluding to the 1985 Stephen Spielberg film Back to the--' "
              "Stop it!  Gods, that comes like breathing to you.  Come on, follow me, Skip.  I think you're going to need a very stiff drink."
              "--Future Hitchhiker's / Frangles Infringement Lawsuit MCVIX."
              "Hurry, we've got no time to loose!"
              "--of Oz."
              "Would you please?"

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