Saturday, November 10, 2012

Chuckling at Conditioned Response

The semi technical trammels of our day bring balancing delight. Note the movement of Karl Rove’s caudal fins, so directive and blanking. The trunk with which he lashes produces grace as a linguistic disease. He has a happy clock taped to his ass, so that he can conquer time by sitting. The lens by which he focuses enjoys multiple states of stinking. So we are dear to him, loose but minding. Karl Rove rises with a varied pattern of word choices, each one suggesting nuclear tucking of the jowls. Meaning is clear, for some reason. Karl points to Glenn Beck’s anger and trees flare with disruption. There is no plan to remain human at this time, just a need to reduce filing time.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Explaining the Various Ways that Karl Rove Pants

There is humanity in a wad of phlegm, said Karl Rove, especially when my words envelop it to carry bright thunder to the smallest thing. And as he meets Andre the Giant in his dreams, imparting lessons of leaving to the spirit of molecules, he rises to containment. Lax fields of stone and dull weeds can be reasoned with, says Karl Rove riding high on colouring adjectives with mayhem’s responsible victim. The simpleton prop upholding clan class diving over the reaches of plain logic to a foundry insisting on poise and cut off, furthering the revolution of square things clucking clucking clucking clucking hemoglobin revolt clucking clucking was that someone I passed in the river clucking clucking clatter clatter poems are nice friends in suspicious times clatter clutter detergent pants Karl Rove, squire to the proximate haze.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Sexy Legs and Other Fun

Karl Rove claims, at the risk of dial tone soon mother, trees were never green. And at the risk of comparing notes, he reveals his teeth radioactivate. Karl Rove ran a tree once—an association of various modules (leaves, roots, bark, branches, townhouses)—it was the last thing on earth, oaky, piny, beechy thing. Karl Rove said Tuesday night that Hispanics are the natural hurricane. He means something (clutter, abutment, field stones up the ass, that sort of thing). Listing human qualities is almost easy when the subject is Karl Rove. Winning is the game we play with bodies of people and mixtures of mice. A class of golden mucous erupts from Karl Rove’s mouth: we see he means to mean something. Mean is right where he lives, suppurating docket of words covering actions. The sad part is, words dying in shriveled state of Karl Rove mouth. Gary Cole's interpretation of Karl Rove? “We're Edie Falco's recovering addict Jackie.”

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Pantocratic Attack

Candle with burning held near Romney hospice of thought. Hope lies in the hoping lies in the hope lying in Romney spent the best. Flavoured trees go with solid food instincts. Candle burning in idea of where the ranch should be, golf freshets to read. Read people as an abstract netting over the continent sighing about trammels. Everyone hates trammels, they’re just not racist enough. As rich as we are poor is as rich as we are radioactive. And rich is the smell of opulent pouring news from local words made public. Describe the noodle that spreads across the soup called chicken. It makes no sense, slithering in that broth.

The demofractured event stung only so deep. New trammels to revere seem like the road taken.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012


In a large metal pot, boil 11 large eggs until hard cooked. Let cool for 7 minutes then add one cup of agave syrup. Do not stir.

Place one cup corn flakes in a plastic bag and crush with a rolling pin. Set next to the egg/agave mixture.

Chop the greens of one bunch of celery and place in a brown paper bag. Place bag in oven then set the temperature to 175. Place rolling pin next to bag. Heat both items for 10 minutes.

Return egg/agave mixture to stove and bring to full boil. Continue boiling until you realize you are talking to Mitt Romney. Remove pot from heat. Pour liquid down drain and place eggs under couch. When family members or friends speak to you, nod then shrug.

As the election continues, look for books that do not excite you too much. Remove page 151 of the book and look it straight in the eye. Is it a racist fuck or what? Does it seem to care about anything within your realm of imagination? Place under couch with eggs.

Remove bag of celery greens and rolling pin from oven. Now that that you have voted for Mitt Romney or whoever, go out to the world. Place fingers on ocean and push lightly. If words appear, study them carefully. Yellow means sun, blue goes forever.

Monday, November 5, 2012

It’s Easy to Find a Local Armed Services

I drank coastal waters and they were good. I drank calibrations funded well and beyond, and they were good. I drank Republican aptitude test, and they were good. I ran into an insane farmer high on inspired hay, and that was good. I paused while words were used overtime, and they were good. I incited a ballot of clear, determined verbs, and they were good. I positioned, that was good. I called Romney in the wee hours, when he was stripped clean of words, and the lump body staying there for all time was good. I started into Obama because after all and that was good. I posed as good and that was good. I thought a rat was a boulevard, and that was very good. I learned to type, and that was good. I thought the squarest head of Romney was traced in lightning for the future of erasure, and that was good. Good is not a prince or princess, by the way. I popped the question, which was good and good until the question popped back. It popped back. It was good. I thought that there was a land where we lived, and it was good. I think the frame is trembling.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Usual Exit Music for Bruce Springsteen

Listen to the lyric dent in dreams. The program asshole wants to include half of your opinion in an important truckstop. Here’s where we will meet the inventor of Cocoa Puffs, whose status as someone who gave us something we never thought to want makes light shine thru the states of heads. And while we relax with racist fucks, dogma tells us a story. The semitic something walked into a sand bar something, and the tides something came over the edge of the earth to prove something. And further, there was something, once, and then it was different. Different is a rush god, and we listen by turning deaf. Out of the heavens of finely wrought brocade comes an envy of complete asshole. The complete asshole is god in a truck, god filled with hors d’oeuvres, god faking topic sentences. We who link surprise with intelligence write tropical notes in our gathering papers.

Because Some People Like Following the World

I’ve been busy sharing Nutella with danger. This is how it’s done: I bake embolisms at dawn, take a quick look at the polls revealing thoughtfully crafted meaningful brands with affordable quality, then file thru the cornfield with Jennifer Anniston’s headlines. Redistribution has never been a characteristic.

Later, in a daze concomitant to a theory of arriving at a safe place with Mitt Romney, we iron out our difference in three languages (one of them is stupid). How can one relax with verbs heading for the door, nouns with square heads, and adjectives all silly? Nobody lies to an adjective. Our sentence remains. LOL.

So-called Professional Who Confuse Sensation

Absentee Ballots dumped near home twice. Once would be plenty, poor Absentee Ballots. The mean people leave them and their earning power. Home won’t be the same with dumped Ballots nearby. These days are closed to discussion. Someone dumped. Someone took dumping procedures upon Ballot Absentees. This is life once. NOW, hereby, Absentee Ballots face real world, again. Dumped in their prime. Was that Romney’s poor spirit flushed or Obama’s? Flocked to the sea to see Phrynne pick up a Ballot with one of those names but only then then send it windward with wind word. The wind takes all Ballots, Absentee or Otherwise. Once is a fall, twice is falling. Now the people make their own maps, turning left and right around Mitt and Barack. Glenn Beck remains a Trojan Horse salon.

Obey Everyday Pants

The Secretary of Stories woke politic. In that engaged cold wind November, slightly stiff stopping in the woods. We have to have 1950 tell us Moon. It refines in verbiage branch, which means they said they said. Words cart over tumble to explain how and when, for the practical good invented in this space. Is ever semantic word freed beyond the coastal waters of needing to say? Which practical invention says the lives of anything could be cured? Having deemed local Republicans too pro-helicopter, season the Secretary of Stories for the long haul over rocky roads.