Nothing Has Ever Been So Write

Each jar has a consequence. I name a myriad of migrations. Signs of propane canoeing to the south. Ooze from the soil grows to maturity. Ooze from the soul teaches the dodo to fly. I steal Belgium with a net dizzyingly plural. It plunges me into knighthood. You can see it from a distance: the energy of a cow against a whole speed bump. Shout the moral stuff at kissing. It fills me with fury, and I salute the hem to aggressively subvert its reality.

The thicker the book the bigger the accommodations. It took a lot of punches to get the plot to combine my garden and throw my engagement to a forest. The wisemen tell me to practice isolation until the goldfish gong. Float the bleeding under its flavor. This gives the intrigue a certain helter-skelter, a kind of equilateral gravy. The next demonstration will only take a century. I invite you to hammer your sleep to a thrilling slide beyond meaning. I wonder if we are to dip our fingers in it. I pierce the source of the circle with a story. The gurgling is verifiable. And evergreen.

Welcome to my aluminum Mars. It’s meant to be hills. But comes up strawberry. This is just to say my fingers flow among spectral inflations. Nothing has ever been so write. We distance our engine by chewing a thermostat. It’s how everything is gallant. The mountain has our virtues in it. I feel insoluble, which makes me irresolute, and ache for a chisel. A cabbage stimulates my absence. But no faith should insult a dump. Therefore, I defer to totems, and the use of blossoming.

What color of skull do we intuitively infer? I believe the answer lies in a dollar of capable bacteria. If you fork my skin I stir with life. This should hold the whisper intact. What is metamorphism to a sandwich? My strength hunts an ugly eye. A rain we detonated teases intent. The stethoscope was just a highway to our exhilaration. Breakfast by all the honors I pinned to it. Van Morrison at 80. More and more this swamp is detectable by spectrum. Age is only advice. The rest of the story keeps elongating Cubism. I rub shadows out of the paint. It keeps me going.

The device is full of clarifications. You just keep pressing buttons. Sooner or later time twists around our camaraderie and makes it all a photograph. My belt buckle has a long neck and a mosquito. Language makes it lavender. None of this is going to change the world. I only wish someone had told me that roaring requires a lot of oxygen, especially when it's higher up in the planetarium. If I’m moving toward you I’m blue. If I’m moving away from you I’m clay. The rest of the universe is somewhere expanding into a book. It’ll look great on our coffee table.

The journey of the mind, in its drift towards liberation, finds flamingos bringing brocade into existence. Anyone reading this thermometer may float dizzyingly to the ceiling. You’ll find there’s a lot of resistance to this sort of thing among the other agencies. It’s a small concession. Like finding a lost leather belt under the aegis of a mahogany bureau. A bottle of absinthe in the closet. A diving board at the end of the bed. Endless icing next to the spin load. Like most things as yet unnamed, it hugs itself dry.

I didn’t just get here, no. I’ve been here a while. I know what it is to shave during a honk of anguish. There are ears that hem the head and effusions teeming with hymns. Prodigality houses the ghost of tolerance. Even the best of secrets sometimes percolates through our greetings. Osmosis isn’t just a town in Nebraska. It’s also a philosophy. A science simmering with oratorios. It rolled a tear down my cheek. I discovered locomotion and cocked my insularity. I write the medicine as a repair, the dish as tangential to a dumpling. Everything on the table is pretty much there to guide our embraces to a fruitful fulfillment. Death is explored by dream. As above, so below.

It's an odd perspective, taking one last drink of coffee, to see one’s face reflected at the bottom of a coffee mug.

I’m going to take a Krakatoa. Buy something topaz. I like torsion. It makes these planets revolve by a proposal of structure. The guy on the drums is a poet named Clark Coolidge. He taught me how to forget everything that wasn’t tied down. How to sip spirits when the incense barks. How a language has veins we should cherish in our nightgowns. The savage delicacy of nouns. That which fits wallows by attraction is sometimes also goats. Meanwhile, the clank of adjectives stiffens evocation. It diffuses into harmonies of appliance. The washing machine rocks on its legs like a poem. And when the bank opens, circumstance gets its wealth all over it.