Quantum Scrap

I hugged a rhododendron and tried to listen. It made me gamble and I won a garden. Consider trying to enamel along. This might be a way to knock the moose into life. The biggest emphasis I could find related to water. Harm turns a generation into subtlety. It’s hard to approach them without a cookie. Fidget a denim they harden. Tear the parabola into a scream.

Cézanne made depth become a rain. It moved me to structure this percolation according to what I propose, which is water. The smell of truffles are there to taste in a lifetime, and make the wheels spin in perpetual arrival. A washing mist is not geographical. It's metaphysics. The eyes are clearly visible beams of attention. A light call for the biography of death. And a cap and a knife.

I rap my breath to muddle everyone's ears. The syntax of the stomach has vines but the law is vague when it comes to vapor. I don't know why the heat it is so splendid. What I do know is the spit of its insistence. Ebony is ecstasy for the bandaged plumber. Who knows why. Life is full of quantum scrap. The fabric I write on is smooth as a runway. Please help me find the rest of this sentence. The entire sauce is at stake in the kitchen. If you find it, give it a piece of your mind.  

Superb cringe of the Thumb King. Think of it as a movie, or a punch to the solar plexus. Art is like that. Our panic is the arm of a long pigment. A freshly varnished violin can make us shiver. I feel a hectic seduction in the strings. The picture yawned its appearance into me, turning me anatomical with a sifted and parenthetical science. This is the flower that did it. I wanted to make it sweat. So I raised it up with my tongue and said it. There’s a brocade for all of our contusions.

The example a plaster makes on a wall when it beats a corner to abolish itself and suddenly becomes a window with a dead fly on the sill and a small crack in the upper corner is sometimes the very thing that promotes an irreducible fascination with the saxophone. I think it’s what Cézanne meant when he painted those delicious apples and oranges. He’s got them arranged artistically but they still look like something you can hold in your hand and bring to your mouth and eat. Life can be so tipsy, just like a canoe. Isn’t hard to stumble and land in some muddy lagoon? I modified my problem by cutting it in Costa Rica. There's a taproot to my prominence, if you know what I mean. The horizon struts across the carpet with a pronoun. These are the stars that I protect by the airfield that I made. We solicit what we drum and then escape it.

And so we carried gallons of water to the park to water the surviving rhododendrons. This is a true story if you choose to believe what these words are doing. Though it’s not a matter of belief. Or words. It’s a matter of virtue. And what’s virtue? Virtue is everything. Rain. It’s mostly rain. Depth is what we hope to find in even the most banal conversations, even if it’s just body language, and somebody’s hand on your butt. This kind of verbal nudging is a trick and you shouldn’t trust it. Like the man said, the truest poetry is the most feigning. The sound of robins on a spring morning is a bright and cheerful melody, but really, it’s mostly about worms. Finding them and eating them. Like words. And then I hear rain. And spirits at the border of our shoes.