Saturday, December 1, 2012

Is This the Best iTunes Ever?

Suddenly, out of the Age of Commas, the children, the children, the unspeakable forgetting ways of finding ways. Saturated path congeries revolt in a parcel called hm, Orrin Hatch. Redoubtable expense account freely lifting other children to place on other children. The spores are free.

Suddenly, too, the Age of Commas. As a reliable dock fence, you stop there. Yet a sentence like Mitt Romney, like drinking from a can of water, like proviso providing for proviso until tears the coast with storm.

Frisson says sentence ends where the next begins. Reading weary path wouldn’t know. Inauspicious children at the door, each with a comma for the next in hand.

You can’t be 8 o’clock in time for everything, says Orrin Hatch, rendered almost possible.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Dear Microbe Romney

Your panting seems like time. Your pantaloons await insertion. Sere deserts move maps to wayward barns to formulate a new tomorrow. Radiating dioceses blame cleverness, but we know you are free of that injunction. You read how wampum is a statutory mine and smiled.

Today is the first interval of words settlement. We promise to pay attention while hatching new plans. We see that you have tons.

Microbe Benefit finds a pursuit.

Microbe Mexican talks to a phone

Microbe Reasonable buys a saint.

Microbe salad days wants a referral.

Microbe Duck songs homeward salient.

Microbe Democrat flickers in the windlass.

Microbe Barack severs the coastal storm while minks swim to safety.

The story of minks requires evasion.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

This is the Police, Open That Door

I wonder if

the category will claim me. News from

woods and winds, treacle as testament, will you

reward the negative of town?

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

When Friedrich Nietzsche Crouched Over a Gopher

Friedrich Nietzsche was a pinpoint of desultory light. In words he whirled something something time. Richard Wagner was a scathing flack with anti-Semitic shoes. The roof over each of his operas smelled of lumps.

These salients start to sound like pigment. There exists a manner of inquiry in which the word becomes a blow dart stuck in a cactus. Neither blow dart nor cactus exists, but the word remains. It must be anti-Semitic to be so enduring.

The people of light, who wish they were dandruff on Newt Gingrich’s flaky head, decide to speak more words. Ponds of words. More words daily, like porridge, like tribunal, like slavery as a mask for penance.

Choice of cambric remarks upon the detail by which we enumerate the placement of yet another word instills a sense of document. Every word finds a pinpoint of light. Humans discover ways to share their dismay.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Brad Seems too Loose to Fizz

The worth that engine, that angel. The same documents called slaves found listing in history. You could tell that things went straight to words, while words went crooked towards another impress. Money talked of how the venting force creates a damage startling the quark within the residual effects of a person qua person. Who are we, to disagree?

Reflecting upon such truths as seem likely, little words attempt to bolt from human grasp. Human grasp is the same pan-fried waiting for the meal extortion. Time will tell.

The slaves of history rose up en masse and words were spoken with a sail of meaning. Those in the books of history stood respectful tall. And then reading history showed readers. Readers were steps forward, as they read. They read words, it was their time. The words.

That Christmas engine, that imagined freed slaves then found the words for them, this is the point. In 1861, there were reasons to fan the flames. Tyranny wasn’t much of a tone poem, but states written right refer to the moment, words or not. No words include every thing. Not even slaves, not even human slave being to be human. Not even being being human.

History Lessons Dark as a Corridor

The ramparts were full of tools. Each tool had two legs, to support their fact in motion and complex time. This was almost the year 1861. The tools produced blurry words.

A slave is a handle.

In all the centuries called the 21st, there are people. They seem sensitive in their virtues, if virtue is a tree burning for laughs.

Glenn Beck has no word in him.

No concept exists for the spruce tree that will display bold symbols. The ease of bending toward a gravity action is a subtle human character. We can blow up Palestine and Israel with any heartbeat. It’s a justice we learned to employ like taxes.

No word wants Glenn Beck.

King Cotton forgot that he was flammable, and that was a mess. You read the years and everyone’s sad. No one makes one word better.