The Price Of Life

The price of life is precisely this it has been discharged by a perturbed astronaut who is yelling away to stimulate change. These are pieces of my life what a residual effect it has had consider the lily it’s moist as the belly of a swan. This is a widening perspective they swim around you these perspectives the raccoon for example is vital to the ecology of this sentence as it spurts from the ground. My thirst is nailed to a eucharist. This was once a palace and now it’s a story about the unpredictability of life. My name has been dampened by utterance. This was supposed to be my retirement. It’s yellow because it’s a firmament firmly fermented in Portugal grapes. All these words have been strewn naked on the shores of Illyria and now everyone is in a race to climb Mount Analogue which is located in a different geography, somewhat like a spider walking across a cracked throne. If you’re going to wear a necklace of garlic you should also learn how to give birth to yourself. It’s rained all day on that cake outside and it’s turning back into butter, returning to the same canvas that was there when the heat was on. We were a thrilling ride in an amusement park of our own invention back then, when everything began blowing west, toward the horizon. Such are the pleasures of the spout. The scene dissolves now into almonds. Buffalo Bill sitting on his horse in the tall grass near a cave bleeding echoes from the prehistoric past, platelets big as planets are not entirely true to the proportions of nature, but this isn’t the Smithsonian. Think of this as a simulation of time collapsing on a generality. After all, I’d like to remember something about you. Like it or not, the propane is not a list of vacation destinations. That’s not what propane is for. Retrospection thunders in us like angry customers in an appliance store. Frugality is a lobster dancing on a string of words. Insects have little to do here except be insects. Do what comes natural. Why is punctuation always shrugging? The period is a bobblehead on a dashboard. You never know when things truly end. They always tend to keep going. It’s the nature of things to keep going. None of the photographs understand Rimbaud. Did he sleep with a cherry? Did his sheets in Cairo shout with softness? The hoe is a garden implement. Hope is a mental implement. We use it to turn the page to a new chapter. Each rivet holds the narrative together. Everything is soldered by spell and incantation. We do this to fish the redemption of Hollywood out of its impending obscurity. The flood of dots that was once Dagwood. The night usurped by dawn. Tufts of mint. Meaning lying fallow in a furrow of words.