I know the inevitable controls the docket. I know this docket travels parsing. Freedom is the lapse of effects of Pat Robertson on Haiti while trouble is his gown. I know the gown that Pat Robertson wears. He wears the seeming and the dress. He wanders the Haiti that he was told. He is angry in a nonce, a pity to see. A real person laughs because Pat is a sap characterized by impairment of the ability to form normal social relationships, by impairment of the ability to communicate with others, and by stereotyped behavior patterns. He is the god of Haiti, but he is still a sap. He is a laughing reference to what’s wrong with chairs, but he is still a sap. His remains are a laughing reference to what falls downhill, a gown worth falling for. He falls downhill in Haiti, where bedsheets survive the excellence that will not control him. His zombie is a blessing, such a gift of words. He does not get it, those social cues that are strong as wheat. He is a winter parted down the middle. He is an island, parted down the middle. He is a dome, parted down the middle. His dogged restitution survives with Brylcreem, parted down the middle. He is the sap of sapience, parted down the middle. His wink is kind to Asperger’s, parted down the middle. His punchline is gownlike, parted down the middle. His reference is a pullet, parted down the middle. When he runs home, he is final, parted down the middle. There remains his last word, parted down the middle. I know that the inevitable controls the docket, redolent of listening. The docket is propped in the course of social cause, parted down the middle. The middle is extreme, parted down the middle. The middle is Pat Robertson’s left and right, parted down the middle. The middle is the perfect autism, parted down the middle. Pat Robertson finds the finest strikeforce, parted down the middle.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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