True

If required a bobblehead needs a stick to get the storm across. There’s always an echo following the perception of self. I bungled the ablution but made up for it when I bent the sky toward Texas. I’m not against biting a chronicle if it serves the needs of breakfast, but despite the polish of the stove there should be more light in the window. My sleep blasted the slide into smithereens. The water crashed against the winch and my eyes caught it full on. Shout cartwheels when there’s enough faith going around to believe in our parliamentary fury. It will ease the moment when the structures of old age prove queasy. Squeeze the stimulus, don’t let it just sit there. We’re the crackle of ourselves. The copper harmonica issues hints of nomadism. The winter hymns warp the melody and certifies the lingering patterns that pulled the final notes across the horizon. My smear of life fulfilled the pull of night. I saw an alligator swim through your skin. And after a compelling indentation I felt the need to ponder the oddities of an ancient hammer. I banished all paradigms from the spin of our wild float. Grace is a mockingbird below my soul. Think of it as an excerpt of inner fornication. Follow a trickle beneath the chin and go mingle with the spectators in their presumptuous milieu. Lucidity excels from its bungled attempts at tile. It swans to me against the verdict of walking. A basket of emotion is sometimes left at someone’s doorstep and as it solidifies into sumac we study the biology of the Fauve movement. I don’t pay enough attention to linen. I like to explore a clutter now and then. Drink blazes of henna while segments of gravity move along a wire of lovely cognition. What war ever solved the problem of utopia? Will it ever exist? Can you kill a dream? Here: pepper this paddle with the salt of salvation. Move it back and forth. There are proverbs for this. And the power to trudge through the mud of the estuary, where the light spreads itself everywhere evenly and true.