New poem: The conversation

What art is choicer than the talk? A thousand thousand colors paint the clip snip nip nibble bubble pop of you and me while we bob for puns, slip flirt, nudge points, poke parody inside, joke, tumble, prop the social pole, the hidden pile of life's dark hole. Not grave, just deep. The eyebrow dance, smile, shrug, hands up, hands out, hands point, hands fist, sideways glance that says what's said is less or more than puffs of air. Bright lens flare of context. All about the angle of the phrase, the way you don't say what you don't need to say. The way I know that you don't say what you don't need to say. It's all been said, and will be said again in other ways, on cold, warm, broke, flush, distant, closer, tender, harsh, loose, bound, free, forgotten, glowing different days. We work at this. The vital whole built on whispered leaves of play. More coffee, please. More traffic noise. More brush of coats and cell phone buzz. More rain in slithered tracks on windows, circumscribed by others' colors, background noise does not distract but emphasize the drip of words we let slide down. Like stalagmites, conversation built of tiny microscopic stuff, dissolved in wet, wry words, grown statuary, monumental witness to our shared wonderful and verbose worlds. 

[note: when I pasted this in from the program I wrote it in, I lost the line breaks. and I kinda like it better this way, so I'm leaving it for now]