We will meet each time the moon begins to wane.
During this meeting we will discuss our progress and our regress; and we will express our agression toward the inevitable shifts in the sands, the dust on the windowsill that went unnoticed, and how the sun affects the mood each moment in hopes of discovering the bleeding edge of our sharpness, where we went dull, and wherefore our cacoëthes sometimes takes over when we’ve better, brighter, healthier ways to spend the day: writing, moving our arms about, ensuring profusion in the confusion with the moments ticking off.
Our sisters and brothers, who will keep the minutes? Seeing no volunteers the chair appoints the desk where you last wrote to your father to tell him
one more time... Point of order! Point of order!
Our next scheduled reunion is a known variable when you should only plant things that grow underground.
Sergeant-at-arms, take the roll from this dish. It's a stale biscuit.
We are finished. sine die.
I write and rewrite the Minutes, they are never quite right and alright they say, they'll all be right because the Minutes are written in poetry.