The Burden Of The Sandwich

An example of adaptation drifts through the tube I put here a minute ago. I forget what for. Go ahead. Snap your suspenders. Roar.

The air sounds out a bulb by murmuring provender. The surface attracts faces without flexing its sugar. And this stylizes the brushwork. Burning oaths that tickle the nose. Surely this will purple a push-up. I keep some in the glove compartment for just such occasions. I fully anticipate complaints. The batch is sizzling the sizes the seizure of hissing like a probability. But I did not intend the prunes. They arrived by veneration.

Sit down and pray with me. Airports are always fugues. A circulation juggling its steam in view of a swollen stream. The sky shakes with clouds. And the night extends its horns. The invasion was spiral. I cut it out of a cluttered museum. Is it any wonder that imperatives sometimes fail to mollify the geese?

If you want me to I will stop at nothing. We will flip the right curves and lift ourselves into naked thought. If a circle is square bohemia waddles in gardenias. And nothing is done to alleviate the burden of the sandwich, which, throughout history, has been a staple of our journey through numerous kitchens late at night. Time’s lips kiss the milkshake. A parabolic syntax insists on moods. And there they are: the stars. My despair is upside down holding a thunderbolt.

Instead of measuring it in a tablespoon I think I’ll just pour the olive oil into the pan and see how it spreads. I will find my insoluble heartwood perspective there, a formula soaked in history. Ploughs, seraphs, tubers and Dachshunds under the willow. You know. It goes on and on like this until the end of the sentence, at which point it evolves into towels.

Here’s my opinion, writhing on the desk like a worm of French nationality. I’m finding the clatter that did itself into Montmartre. And it made me feel configurational, like fiduciary subversives sitting at a green table in a white room on a black night. I sprint through the slippery connectedness of these words expecting nothing of the machines other than éclairs. Or meaning, which will always touch on concentration. I’m busy in snow now. The candidness of the oarlocks reminds me of Kentucky, and tin, the most ingratiating of metals. It’s as if slivers of silver could pulse like bald consonants in a lyric of sparkling irrationality. And come out the other side singing like Tony Bennet in a spaghetti western.

My conceptions bristle with daydreams these days. Reality crackles in a meditation I brought aboard. I endeavor to crate the examples with shoes. And then a brown Rembrandt will be pinned next to our hunger, which even now huddles in the corner like a sandwich, shuddering with cheddar.