As egyptian president, I have been a book. I have been a library. A liquid assertion compels the age-old Nile in study, with whiffs of news called electricity. The people stand on chairs. Each chair commits a prognosis in which daisies arise in the mind’s eye, when the mind’s eye reaches Colorado. No egypt exists without president. The present is not enough. The egyptian present moves on curtailed vibrations. Like a dog in years, or a basket asking for help, the days muddle for completion. The complete egyptian president can talk. So can the many others. So can the guarding pattern of other nations. I have been egyptian president, on long walks thru hall after hall. I have spoken up for the presence of statements, of places to speak, of canvas upon which to paint, of stones to do the talking. The clock ticks conservatively. I ask for haymakers now, the will to live like molasses. Proper nouns list towards verbs. Smack can be both.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments