Voyage To Land Of The Dots

Experiments select what they graze on, which is the problem. A thermometer a grandeur and a museum. The coaxial split has style. Encouragement to illuminate the wall more and more. The copper plate makes the bird drift through the air.

I’m juggling with the timelessness that accelerates inside an oak. There was a stilling cap of wind I wore that made life feel prismatic, like a sky. You can curve a song by singing what it wants to do. The elevator boils next. I see a seam that we make and ride it into our structure.

Thermometers need architecture. They just do. It seems to me that the hypothesis has some whiffs to it, but could use a little more allegory. I sigh, flap around the room, and land on an armchair, irritated that such monstrosities as this must seek expression in writing. We bounce down the street singing operas. My intestines growl. I soothe them with a little milk of magnesia, and am glad. I live among potatoes and elephants. The comfort of hallucinations is a resource.

Monumental hive we vein with power. My plow jokes of carrots before it caresses the soil. Our summoning abounds in flavor but brings no plucking to our epilogue. There is a pathos in bread I do not find in crackers. I spot your cocoon interior. I could hear it leak from the Charles Bridge.

Our evocation got serious when the escalator fired up again. Communion is a gush embellished by running. I dab the mushroom in confusion. The galaxy next to the scribbles is a flower. This should be flashing. I didn't say it had to be a tomato. Or convincing. It’s respectable to compose a simulacrum whose odor can weigh as much as a clarinet. Anything less is simply an outline.

Anybody can be a pogonophile. But it takes a mustache to be a skinflint. The plumbing of it all rattles the muscles of a lightbulb and leaves us moaning like a lampshade. I find a friction between insinuation and mutton. Even so it makes me happy to take you down to the river to see these things for yourself, the bathing women, the euphoria, the outcasts in their fine regalia. Morality is obsolete. We all go a little crazy at times. It’s the pogonophiles who suffer.

An author greets me at the entrance to the Land of Dots. We enter trough a colon: a transparent 3-sided object separating colors into theories and underworld Monstera Deliciosa dances its distillates all over our faces. Every two minutes a new religion emerges from the rear of the sentence and produces a goddess of tinfoil and vapor. The very ground trembles with Panpsychism, especially as it appears in the panels of the Sunday comics, a forklift running amok in a warehouse of Ben Day Dots and circus supplies. We exit into the blinding light of a fresh new job loading semicolons onto the back of a pickup, and a lively Bohemian polka.