Trees were creamed by the partition called light snow. It set the tone for the day: a reliable call to duty, a putty-like religion. The nation, known as ours tho monstrous in its indispose, frittered in the panic of another day old bread. They who marched or looked likely congregated and met glances. It was a rife-toned phlegm coughed vigourously as part of the chilly season. The wind was named Frore, since the situation was special. We have made our verbs count, said one of the throng. Later, a debate grew looser. George W Bush, the second rug on the same floor, brushed up on brushing down. Welladay, the nouns are in charge! There were piebald ponies, strict reasoned clown faces, pounce remains of marching bands, and the hawk of all gritty effort, all for the radical day. We are better, mayhap, now, having spent our last ounce, with adverbs trailing weakly. Who needs the discussion of density, when the electron we trust will not register its place? There is this person, Barack, and his wife, Michelle. They represent the perimeter of incoming influence. Electrons trail behind, and the children of these electrons, and the days Harvard meant something, and more, so much more. The book (flock of geese marching into the wind) is almost potion. Drink is enabled but, you know, Washington is a realm of cherry trees and midnight larks. The band concludes some romantic march into the next proposed history. At the inaugural ball, it will be a gruesome sweat of trying on the next day. Hangovers are possible, with adjectives for feeling. Thru it all, the trees remain creamed because winter is long. Ideas about Mars, the red rock just above, circulate with life. Documents implode under the wait, just as would you, Dear Ragged Reader. Time is not helping the way the sun could barf ricochets of radiation in the year 2012. You are ready for that stock market impulse, yes? Of course and how wonderful! You matter, Sir or Ma’am, because you read these words. Each one has its pliant quantum bump, like the wake of a seasoned ship of state. The trees are creamed with snow, yes, and the rare black squirrel is in cahoots. Citoyen, will you dance your inauguration or will you step into the book you have made? Fling conjugal happenstance into the incoming franchise and dilate the oath of office. That Bush thing is out the door and the news cycle flutters. Please read, Dear Reader/Invader, what you are, in a tone set for the day. The message is mentionable, by all lights of enclosure.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
Comments