It is natural to push blue into wonder, clapboard the infinite with tea. What any apparition does to tea is more tumbled than lime. More palette with oars, more gaudy with straw. Just a blade whose prominence is an embryonic feather. Disturbance begins pushing itself toward Las Vegas for fulfillment and pardon. The heart agrees to create a tide pool in its subtleties. It is as if, in tea, the eyes were turning toward something cut out of the air. Dabs of blood or the soft mimicry of glue. Wisdom’s the first element to arrive in stars. It flavors push-ups when holes are present and each has the presence to escape into garments of silk and burlap. Envy is as expansive as the paraphernalia it envies. There is a certain jackknife to turn this seminal and circular in the elfin studio. It was bistros to station in naked confession. Caress a chew for orange. This is why I have flickered Bach at times, and devoted an anthology to the bones of any umbrella sanctioned by Lord Alfred Tennyson. Here is a tonic accentuated by veins of silver. Love me. Hold me. I am feeling like a sorcerer. I anticipate the kind of emotions that go with Hinduism and punctuation. This very paper imitates the crying of string. I have certain rascally expectations concerning this embarkment. France unfolds in ermine. There is, as you know, salvation in crows. You go ahead. I’ll stay here and figure the sky out. I don’t know what it’s doing here on the bottom shelf. Caravaggio is shrewdly churning among the propellers, as the paint has intended, and the beads have solicited reverie in their willingness to hang in the kitchen door like that. It opens me. It truly does. I feel open to just about anything, except austerity. I just don’t like it. It’s too, well, you know, austere. It’s not like sugar at all. I like the consonants in between, and the vowels that expand the mouth. Pleasure is a treasure. Emotion pours itself into the bloodstream expecting rain. And guess what happens? That’s right. It rains. And the vowels roll into consonants to allegorize the widening shadow of Sam and Dave sweating heavily in black pants and white shirts. The aim of any language is to alert the soul to music. Articulation burns with audacity when we touch the stars. History is kinetic because it happens that England is navigable and not at all the logical bear that we thought it was. Those men in red jackets with all that fur on their heads is purely for the tourists. The real poetry occurs elsewhere, in the little pink sounds that our napkins make when we hammer them with our alibis and fold them into folklore. The more adult smells tend to live on water. It is there one may expect to find daylight palpable as a bank caged in a world of adjectives, and the experience of bones stiffened by the grace of lobsters.
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