A Species Of Sun

Lightning laziness thinks swaying is reaching for age. Gym chapped greenery that mockingbirds venerate. Mahogany paragraph thunder. Quintessentially elected quilting. Granulated fizzy capstan.

The round weight of the handkerchief adheres to a sense of conceit. So blow your nose. A single pearl will translate the tale. Cravings whistle the light up. A sweet sinking old motion makes the shuffle dance a sensation we can bring to the sandstone and turn to camaraderie. There’s a swirl in my shoulder that confirms the dancing once again in the heat of my emerald. You can always tell yourself to lift your life into the stars. The yearbooks will appear later wearing words like a person.

It wasn’t long before other thoughts moved us forward onto wheels. Everything rolls. Everything bowls. Everything strolls. Bowls and goals and holes and foals and poles and souls.

Loons on a spree in a convent van.

The nebulous mushroom visit made us all happy. The habitat climbed into us to be healed. I’m not sure it worked. The trees looked injured. But the moon was alright. The almanac phenomenon weighed as much as a bell pepper. This amused the extrusion, but the intrusions were sadly trapezoidal, and sank into the ground while the armchair snickered among its springs.

The snowdrift sat in the sauna melting into a puddle of doctrines. I didn’t know what to say. The smells were puzzling. The energy tickled my brain which immediately recruited something to think about. I thought about the radio. The pungency of its shine, the taste of its cyclone.

The current got stronger after the scorpion rain. The wandering ink made its caresses big as throats flopping on a sock. Some things are so obvious it makes you want to molt.

Oh well. Saturday’s scarf is tomorrow’s pillow. Let’s just say that the road is open now and the music is a species of sun.