The way red maples imitate Byzantium, when Byzantium ions sustain Norway maple perplexed with the intrusion of cold air masses. Republicans resemble parsing, if parsing were the word for feathery litmus. But if feathery litmus were the extent of parsing, crashing of periodical airplanes, and a Timbuktu positron seduction to rival the best cheap vodka, would be the ultimate sweat lodge for Friday night. Is this extreme? Are marshes extreme, for all the petulant stairways thriving in the modicum of constancy? You seek thrushes that refer to brownness, opals that are opulent water, stem cells that create mocking, and oracular miniskirts that resume a bygone cage. Position rebukes boom box, our native Republicans like steam, our Democrats crave wet. In stylish organdy, the teasing philosophic lodestar crumbles nuclear. You who region budget-savvy refrain from excessive Triassic periods, knowing that we are all born in a cave-in in Jura, like a bunch of crowded bulimics. We all but like them. So now, with civilization in hand, lights cresting on Doppler sunsets, and splendiferous sunset has been inculpated finally, well that I like you, meanness of human contact. A poet contains a poem but is no more than a planet surveyed by ballistics.
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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