The day renders green thru the wind and furnishings of the moon. The moon was shadowed tonight, well known, frosted, and passed. The night is our beginning. In effects of season and instrument, we have pulled tiny things from large and vaulting. This is creative, like the shadow capturing the moon’s garden. Now the wind, a doorway of sorts, continues. Testaments and words continue, fitted to stations, and the river rattles on. We love the river. It fends for the landscape and twists thru the orchard. The orchard holds our apples, bright and uncontested. Each apple is a sun, uncontested. We love the river, traveling on.
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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