The sour propositions flick call the pope of envy. The rauls edge to horizons made of muddy pants. We were young in the clutch, the dinging crown blow full of effort, It’s all a wonder, tuck in the cambric. We live in that standing loss of wind and wild, given the stirrup redolence, caught in praxis. It begins again, only in words, because only words strike only anything. The sentence is a test, a phrase is a second, only a portion of the anything. And you are. You are the time and it is now. You are the phrase that fills, and sentence told to all. You cannot stop a flower, gone is gone. The poem only grows in the words hanging hanging. What time is love? What time is our holding? You are the only only only. Word.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
The enlightened one entered a supermarket. “I seek a people united, life and liberty.”
“Aisle 3,” said the cashier.
General Giap entered the supermarket. “I seek Bao Dai, Diem Bien Phu arrangement.”
“Aisle 7,” said the cashier. “Half off for Nguyen Cao Ky.”
Sun tickles poor American left to decide fate of crackers. Ayn Rand prepares turgid remark in high relief, to spell out the whistles of populace. Mr C. M. Hoo waves to China. Uncle Ho waves to U.S.
“You have temperature of thousand degrees,” said Doctor to Sun. “Cool!” said Sun.
Ho Chi Minh was once one day. The centuries always heavy. The countryside contained the pollen count of China, Japan, and France. It was strange to seed the day. After the tangled flaming of jungle, it was strange to seed the day. Everyone was sorted into united people. The manifestos began at the pace of resurrection.
“People dead is the opposite of people dying,” said Ho Chi Minh, in the super, in the market, in supermarket.
At the Ayn Rand Institute, we advocate toothpicks that stand 17’ tall. We reject the mere utility of holding fancy sandwiches together, let sandwiches stand for themselves. We are Ayn Rand, finely wrought chicken. We live in Massachusetts, the any town of any mind. We live in the heart of a city of light. Our light is light, like strict passage to the next important fact. We beg for creations as tall as our men. We discuss actions and currents, with the highway as a map. We live in quick-paced sentences, distributing with zest. We are angels of agreeable passage, talking the night away so that we can sneak up on morning. When morning’s glow cuts the furtive sky, we strike a match. Our matches are towers of extreme trees, mastering the horizon and every imaginable paragraph. We use periods only to excite and impress the document. We are the document, just as the landing missile prevents unneeded reply. In seven years you’ll hear our bell.