The day of clicking sent roots precariously, which just happened to wake bear. Bear ran the riverside and verse, tending toward a blossoming blueberry bush. Bear is sleek as you are surprised. To feed is to fill the hole that winter was. Pardon the river as it straddles the landscape in gust. Bear is indignant, did not vote for Bush. Obama, this is a network containing words felt for rollicking and timeless leasing proposals. Our country, if you are we, resists pragmatism as surety. Bear contingent opts for prose poems, nowadays. Grains of sand stricken from the record have resurfaced as moons around Saturn. These just piles of impressive dust in circles of inflection will likely fall into the well of the gas giant's heart. Whereas bear, straining for population, maintains an amble of intent beyond such tug. It is all Idaho and the miracle of margin. I once wrote a poem, said John Milton. What??? we replied. The roots of Cromwell's clicking remain with us, so poetry seems thin. Alas and the day of bolting bear.
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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