Tuesday, April 14, 2015


It sometimes happens that a harmonica strikes the ears until one’s ganglions provide a version of morality that might appear peppy, if not for the cornelian cherry. Our abalone peppers its hums at language. There is clatter amid our signals. Let’s toss a gulp into proposition and watch the swallow of opinion. The Mediterranean verifies pins. There is a spirit in the ether. There is a house in New Orleans. What piano? Nature has given us the use of language. It’s a condition more resilient than those of the United States. I get angry quite often. There is a street where things are quicker at the edge of night. Shine of the rails is a tonic for the eyes. It’s always a little strange to sit in an exam room with the Statue of Liberty. The willow isn’t glued together with fiddlesticks anymore. Burlap envelops waves and wind and thought. Objects report the darkness in my room. The lobsters are resonant with red. My sternum contributes parabolas, a bag of nails that the rub of abrasion unites like a rag from a kitchen sink, oblong beeps of tailgate yaks. What happens if I engrave in you the permission to glitter? Locomotive whose wheels imitate the stars, whole roundnesses of steely convolution. Attack cogs that gravity salts. And dishes and ripples and opened carving sharply fang. Admire walks in. My favorite fabric consists of syllables until my tongue gets drunk with description. Piercing sounds of creosote. When I think of the ocean’s requirement’s I stumble. The cement conducts combs. The table causes itself by percolating pumpkins. I feel a certain sorcery weight which is alive with thirst. The digestion of art acts like a dry monstrosity. The air bites shrewdly. I merge into radiance. Ripple and a hoe and a grammar expanding the morning and flailing at the perspectives of invention that a talk animates. Airport ripped rain and a pronoun. I feel planets if there is a teeming I congregate to play the guitar. I is a pronoun in which propagation graces conceptual shouting. Timelessness is very much more than time and makes it that a meditation is a mode of scripture so sweet are the singular pleasures of reading. I am blatant, blessed, and taffeta. A fiber, basically. When I was in Paris I was sometimes sounding myself like a piano. I can put some emphasis on chewing the parallels, but would it wink? Walking and waking made a pain yaw and wag and then I came to a hill where I said fur and contrasts. French ocher hive is considered rhetorical, nicely repaired if it cuts the air but rides on a tongue and the size is the same when recognition relies on time to engage the mind. It’s a kind of recruitment. We tower over our detonation of burning forms listening to the hatchets hatch into Middle English. Birds are experienced symbolically. I is a hectic conceit that dissolves in suspension. Explore the stars. Power is only a heat. Wonder incised the clutter. We forced the scent to smell like magnetic flux. Embodiment happens when the oscillation goes all spontaneous and suede. What thinks our orchard of space? Bump a monument under the air. The kinetic boat glue is opened by pliers. Rivers clutter and luxuriate in our pockets. My dab teases a daub of definition and deforms the wiggle with skin. The hymn sends us jumping into hammerhead hats brimming with Germany. My arms pause in mutation. Personality’s anchors are painted a red and white and blue seclusion. Darkness and sympathy unite in thought. My stick bumps the heart and its fragrances produce a parade of beggars, groans, dampness, and winter. Existence is trouble and there is a consequent conviviality and the light is splashy. Velocity is a form of gasoline that weighs like play to a buttonhole. Plurality stirs thought. Do you believe in singing? The sky is totally eczema. Structure invites provocation. It is more the form of the farm than is its livelihood, which is cows and cowls and a fine black crow. Thank you for allowing me this moment to experiment with these words, which are pushing themselves into another lip to get spoken like snow.

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