Monday, July 25, 2016

Maybe the Only One Left

The bass player in the middle of direction. Time passed filing date, a logic sent from when words were. It isn’t easy. A sentence has flowers for approval, late in the rhythm of only a poem. You want the people whole. Whole is the heaven of inside. Words as a direct sort of godthing, laden not prepared. We aren’t the nation of knowing, now or today or the last thing left. We have to tax and look around corners. Well. This plain where the dogs and cats adjust to no dogs and cats. Specious remark left for the space between us. Donald all trump, you are the gorgeous loss lit finding not a pasture fit for approval. The sun was blue.

Debbie Wasserman Won't Gavel

because abbreviations realize after all, and the token within the mere asking constitutes an emotional response, and death is a nightly thing, and verbs seem preposterous when placed near nouns, and the fact is, and the day seems lovely for the grey clouds not against them, and the heat wave allows electric, and anyone can surmise, and Donald has a friend over there, and then we watch a plum.