Somebody spoke like hankies in the dropdown menu of the plastered faction, so we got together for a Trotsky. Rife whistles rent by hayseeds toggled on the modular web design determination of the prole section. We like our sporty shirts, so attractive to grunting parts, say the comrades swaying in the wind. Obama sopped up Parisian sunset by the River Seine, his mood ring filling improbable school nights with his First Lady Michelle and her anyday shine. That new age Tongan Rush Limbaugh, observing ossuary assumption, sweats the oldies and the newies, his nose an immaculate closet. Meanwhile, we laugh over fields of warbling bluegrass, thinking horses, the justice of legs. The hankies of intention started a new round of praxis, which translates as the guy in the commercial who likes what he has. Hot to Trotsky is cool to Stalin, laughed Lenin, snorting comical coke. His hanky will be our hanky someday, crusty as the merest sanction.
poems, fireflies...