Saturday, August 1, 2009

The Original Mojito

I am exactly a thumb print, dear doctors who read. And I have a television query, fault line constabulary. If you, twinkle of sublime Potsdam, have a reference number handy and type it in. I am proposed for this birthday dinner and more. You will regard the stippling as a wired way to clock. Now dearest salubrious gas mask in the distinct future, control the flight contract. Let doctors who read underline the verbs and nouns of missive in the sunshine. The poetry after which will be particular, like prawns. What are dead people doing, when we roll them together as makers for inclusion? We all think of something, even if it is nothing. Nothing is a consideration, like a ticket. You read a paper stating how Obama included. Which nouns were most masculine, in the inkling that followed?

Dave is a Hustler Named Ray Wagner

The 70s skidded with more guff. You used the word brusque. That was your period of twine. You left these monuments and said something strange. Foraging for imperturbable, you stuck Obama on your forehead. Bet that hurt! Cigarette smoke folded over the pages in your smart book. So okay, poetry fiend, read thru the pages, even when verbs are spurious. The 70s were soldered with details, prime metal. Nothing consumed the facts more exactly than the details. We were listening to the music, except that we could not dig it. We dug holes in vapour, felt proud. There is a left side to ontology, and you are bold enough to make a list. Include your 70s in this list. Centuries are constrained. You said daddy, but you meant Evolution.

The Left of Intention

Blistered arrangement in Obama's plant. That plant is excised with cultured cells looking for the sun. Obama brands name in this stampede, and we leak alert. A new orange smokes upon the evening landscape, parlance for yesterday, then blue over the gushing land today. Stay happy with Obama, or paralax, or the motion across the kitchen floor, of something. Something secret leaves the hives. Something secret seeks the plant. The plant is poised like anything. Tussle continues, with new verbs vectoring the continuation. Obama bravely last the night, sweatshop slogan. Our President, haply, but effort contorts all known regions of meaning. The South, for instance, the West, the North and its East, and so on, dilations. There was a lake above. A blue and now it is shining morning lake. It was above, like the cat, or even more, when we are attuned. Obama battles with all words, Even as the proposition institutes some collision hardly to be compelled. All this exceeds ramifications. Our President, in definite station, stays poised, paused, posed.