Burrito

The sounds are teeming in leaves. The muffin I faucet has pluck. I take the time to fulfill a copperplate there and wax a shoe. It glues pleasure to the images I wife. We organize exploration by hunger. We explore hunger as hunger explores us. This is the stethoscope I prefer. It murmurs with swans, which guide a lonely power through the painting of life in a library. Appliances are watched by ducks. The pool is a languorous dream. It’s effervescent to extend summer under the skin. If structure pokes me I find a bikini and sift it for waterfalls. The idea’s peculiarities make it an orchard whose fruit are the mosaic of books and whose enjoyments are sucked by addicts in attics. It’s prodigal to laugh, crucial to keep the silverware cool at night. Tiger our art at a trouble. Tube this plummet and show our snakes. Glasses it cuts there to cook a vocabulary until it smolders with the pneuma of the dead as they gather around a roaring bonfire. Your knife begs to attack a pimple. Discharge a gratitude then hit escape. My bingo falls and I slap it. Your wings perpetuate inquiry, thus proving the theorem of anomalistical semantics, that a poinsettia is welcome at the horizon, and there will be rent for a feather if the wind is from the east and the feather is from a goose. The right angle is the wrong angle if the hypotenuse rolls through a funhouse germinating conversation. The sparkle at the press teases tweezers into books. The sentence has to be lifted carefully. The lightening underneath it is convulsing with headlines. There’s sand in the parable and dust in your sweater. This is why Pythagoras dreams of ovals and the mathematics is the very sauce of darkness whose fingers uphold the moon. It goes with the groove of the universe undertaking the utterances of electric men. Jimi Hendrix sitting on a stool with an acoustic crowbar. It seems a little nugatory but the equation fulfills the requirements of the radio, which is just now busy with water. The body speeds through its music. The breath carries meaning like a thunderstorm cradled in time. How funny that there’s a plumber on the shore. Is this truly a radio or a box of migrant consciousness? I think it’s mainly all about making a difference and appearing before judges dressed as a cypress and ignoring the ramifications. If a poem doesn’t come as natural as leaves to a tree, it’s better to fry it up and eat it as a burrito.