ritual bear developed a broad expanse. words of its clime sifted thru ripe clouds that sent rain, even to the the human world. dizzying process suffered the pants off of human endeavour. the bear was wild in increments of favour. we read of drastic change, and felt that Afghanistan could stand a chance. Afghanistan is named for the land where the land is. and people people the land. and bears are arguments in the landscape. they play as a river filled with bears searching for ultra shores where blueberries control life. life is savoured in increments of blueberries. nobody dies but a few relatives of Ted Hughes. they read of ends and distances, then see a bear, and the bear runs off. when the bears run off, we lose a farmstead. each bear in the landscape represents one lost farmstead. each lost farmstead is the death of a relativity. the basis of poetry resides in the project of armed forces certifying the troubled landscape in Afghanistan. do we really believe in Afghanistan? it is a trial balloon in the shape of a bear. bears are promontories in the landscape. they drill bombs into arguments, and believe land mines include eternity. was Jennifer Aniston there at the beginning of Afghanistan? she was raised by bears, at least in the mathematical sense of one Jennifer processed by barnstorming fierce marauder becomes a barn door blown open by bear argument. the bear itself is easily killed, with a fluid ritual of wanting. do you want a bear down on the ground near you, finished but for your gesture of efflorescence? the vision starts now, with your own president elect. you are Bernie Madoff. you are the cloak of an answer.
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...
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