Signals On An Empty Street

Calorie fox storm. Dirty little radiation. Swan of aromatic redemption. Veil of cloud plaster. Butte in the middle of a city teeming with canaries and sparrows.

I have questions. I have outboards and outcomes. I have a bandage with a flair for thinking. And a season that equates chamomile with Bulgaria. Yet nothing seems to work. I know I’m being furtive. But the fleet needs a reason. And the skein needs a swagger.

Old scarlet collisions. A daily wavy plate of sauerkraut. Mesdemoiselles, are you here for the epithet, or the casket of raillery?

I know there are words available to say fairyland. But none of these are dumplings. When I nuzzle the meaning of death I want to smell the perfume of time.

What can a language carry and how long can it carry it? Straps may be required, and metal, gas stations may be stingy, it is in their nature to be geometric. A language can carry a lot if it’s a truck, or has members and professors, the loss of owls means there is ice on the prairie, be careful, and carry yourself with delight and unreasoning devotion.

I like to slip around in perceptions until I see a punt hit a white-collar yeast infection. I’m all embryo inside. Look into my eyes. You’ll see a beacon of maladjustment advocate vacuity.

Power concedes nothing without a delicatessen. Pistachios signify authority. Cold cuts curtsy to the unconscious. Can I intrude here a minute to recommend the bologna? Time goes by so slowly. We need one another’s love. For example, the Falcon 9 rocket from Space X uses around 902,793 lbs. of cognac from the Fins Bois region north of Bordeaux.

Pillows of snow complete the structure. There is talk of backwater maneuvers among sticks of musk and lavender. Dazzling ants from an unknown source. The din of old rice as a breeze stumbles by on stilts. Nearby, a vertebral amalgamation of eyes gaze at a conflagration of words in a plump dictionary of the Martian language. And the world grows still for a second.

I’m tired of war. Aren’t you? The wind is forged in a valley of shovels. Onion admonitions rinse the foundry. There is thunder coming from the gymnasium. A similar tomahawk was found in a package of gerunds. One of them was discovered swimming across a description of glass.

The cry belongs to providence. We hear it in our sleep. We hear it in our beer. It sounds like frosting on a sweater. Fireflies in a jar. Olives on a branch. Signals on an empty street.